


The Write Stuff

by rokkasen



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Non-graphic adult content, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokkasen/pseuds/rokkasen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul Evans is an uninspired musician trying to run away from his embarrassing and sordid boy band past. Maka Albarn is a writer who would sell her soul to escape the shadow of her famous author father. Together they form an unlikely team to compose a hit song for pop goddess Kim Diehl but with Soul’s secretive nature, Maka’s distrust of men, and a hearty helping of meddling from well meaning older brother and manager Wes Evans, will they make beautiful music together or fall completely flat? [Music & Lyrics AU] [Resbang 2015]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Strings Attached

This is my entry for Resbang 2015! A super special thanks to Proma and ilana for betaing and to Julie, Kat, Amanda, Laura, Lunar, and Bendy for giving me suggestions, comments, funny gifs, and support through the whole process. Hugs and smooches to the best artist-chans in the world, Amanda and Krib (kribart on tumblr). Do not walk, do not jog, RUN to see their art and listen to their music for this fic.

 _The Language of Letting Go_ is an actual book by Melody Beattie. The song _The Language of Letting Go_ was written and performed by Amanda (sojustifiable on tumblr), so please be sure to listen to it when you read Chapter 7! _Don’t Write Me Off_ belongs to the movie _Music & Lyrics. The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat _is an original piece by me. No boybands were harmed in the making of this fic.

Amanda's music can be found [here](http://earth-shines.tumblr.com/post/134446292002/sojustifiable-his-forehead-crashed-against-the) and [here](http://earth-shines.tumblr.com/post/134445783567/sojustifiable-what-other-surprises-did-soul-have)!

Krib's art can be found [here](http://kribart.tumblr.com/post/134445325065/wow-so-i-had-the-incredible-honour-of-working) and her playlist [here](http://kribart.tumblr.com/post/134445370395/part-2-of-my-resbang-art-for-earth-shines-a)!

 

* * *

 

 

Art by [Krib](http://kribart.tumblr.com/)!

 

The Eagles’ _Witchy Woman_ startled Soul Evans awake from a fitful slumber.

His response to the ringtone was positively Pavlovian, except instead of drooling, he burrowed deeper into his flannel sheets in a pathetic attempt to block out the world. The cellphone rang incessantly, and although Soul wanted to smother himself by the time the chorus rolled around for the fifth time just to end his suffering, he ignored it in favor of stuffing a pillow over his face.

The ringing stopped after the seventh chorus and his cellphone beeped once, informing him, way too cheerfully for seven in the morning, that he had a voicemail.

Soul steeled himself, reached for the phone, and clicked on his mailbox.

“Hello, _Solomon_.” Soul winced. His mother was full-naming him and that was never a good sign. “This is your mother. Remember, you have one.”

There was nothing like a hearty helping of Jewish guilt to start his day. He sighed, deeply, pained, but continued listening. “Your father and I are worried about you, _tateleh_. You haven’t called us in a week. I know you’re still upset about the poor record sales from your last album but it’s time to move on. I bet you haven’t shaved in weeks. Do you think people will buy your music if you look like a schlub?”

_Welcome to the age of lovable, scruffy hipsters, Ma._

“I’m sending your brother over to check on you. And for God’s sake, can you talk some sense into Wes? If I see one more magazine article about him dating this lingerie model or having a scandalous affair with that married actor… tell him he’s slowly killing me --”

He tossed the phone to the other side of his king sized bed and got comfortable once more. If Soul wanted to wallow in his self hatred, that was his God given right as a musician and no one, not his mother, not his brother, was going to stop him. His mother, a musician herself, should have understood the excruciating pain of selling out by writing “popular” music. To add insult to injury, the complete lack of enthusiasm over said horrendous album was enough to make the already introverted Soul want to join the priesthood and maybe hole himself up away from humanity until he died, lonely, pathetic, with no platinum records to speak of.

 _Soul Evans, the piano prodigy who sold his soul and integrity to corporate America to cash in on the boy band craze as a pre-teen_ , they would say on the MTV special about his life. Not nearly enough talent to carry himself into adulthood, washed up before the age of thirty-five, couldn’t even make it by riding on the coattails of his family’s success.

Soul wasn’t even a has-been. He was, to quote the greatest sports movie of all time, _The Mighty Ducks,_ a never-was.

So if he wanted to sulk, he was going to sulk.

He fell back asleep only to be awoken again, this time by the scent of his brother’s preferred expensive brand of cologne and the sound of his designer shoes scuffing up Soul’s hardwood floor that jarred him back into the land of the living.

“Good morning, starshine,” Wes Evans said cheerfully. “I made coffee.”

“Fuck off, Wes,” Soul growled.

“Is that any way to talk to your favorite, loving, concerned brother?” Wes asked.

Soul rolled over to squint at him. “You’re only here to get Mom off your ass about your latest scandal with… Jesus, I can’t even keep track anymore. A tennis instructor? The President’s wife? You’re gross. Go away.”

Wes loomed over Soul, smile just as bright as ever. Soul hated him so, so much. It just wasn’t natural to be that happy before noon. “True, but I’m also worried about you. It’s not healthy to lie around and pout.” He sniffed. “You also need a shower and shave, little brother.”

He chucked a pillow at Wes’ perfect, handsome face. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You need to get up and start working on that song for Kim Diehl. She’s the hottest thing in pop music and you’re lucky that she finds your surly ‘too cool for you’ awkwardness charming,” Wes stated. “Good thing she was a fan of 2Kool4Skool.”

Soul burrowed deeper in the blankets. “I told you _never_ to bring up that stupid group. It’s dead to me.”

The older Evans brother slipped his fingers under Soul’s mattress. “You only have a few weeks to write the song that she’s going to sing at her concert. You wanted to get back on the map, didn’t you?”

“Not by writing stupid pop songs. I’m done with that life.”

Without ceremony, Wes flipped the mattress off of the bedframe, taking Soul down with it. Soul yelped as he hit the floor with a thump and got tangled up in his blankets. “Get up. Shower. Shave. Drink your coffee. Get to the piano and start writing. Sometimes adults have to do things they don’t like. That’s life. But the end will justify the means. Once you get back some of that name recognition, you can do your own stuff. Trust me, I know these things.”

Soul’s hand rose slowly from behind the bed frame, middle finger high in the air.

“Really? Is that how you’re going to thank me for saving your career?” Wes crossed his arms over his chest. “I just so happen to have a great opportunity for you to simultaneously pimp out Kim’s new song and endear yourself to fans, old and new. Have you ever heard of _The Hunger Games_?”

Soul pushed himself off of the floor and brushed himself off, running his hand through his wild hair. “You’re going to pit me against other musicians, last one standing wins? Sounds preferable to the usual meet and greets. Unless the rabid fangirls grabbing at my junk are still a factor -- then I’ll have to decline.”

“No, you smartass. It’s a televised cooking competition for B-list celebrities,” Wes flicked Soul’s forehead none too gently.

“B-list?”

“I’m being generous,” Wes said. _Awesome_. Soul loved it when Wes reminded him that the older Evans was indeed the Justin Timberlake of the group while Soul was the one with the ugly, appropriative 90s white guy dreads who no one remembered. “This isn’t optional, by the way. You’re doing it.”

Shrugging on a t-shirt, Soul waved Wes off. “You can’t make me.”

“It’s either this or I tell Mom that you’re ready to get married and settle down. I hear Mrs. Feinstein’s daughter is available. Or, hey, maybe she’ll sign you up for J-Date!” J-Date. The Jewish singles dating website where dreams go to die and desperate women over thirty-five are abundant. “We know just how much you _love_ meeting randos on the internet and being forced into social situations.”

Soul was horrified. He could almost hear his mother now: _But honey, don’t you think you should at least_ try _one of those singles dances?_ He would never survive. “You wouldn’t.”

Wes smiled benevolently. “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“You’re a dick and if you ever need a kidney, I’m not giving you mine,” Soul relented with a whine.

His brother strolled into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and crunched down on a freshly made slice of bacon. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

* * *

  _The Hunger Games_ was, Soul soon learned, a very strange combination of a Food Network cooking competition, an MTV reality show, and _American Idol_.

No singing was involved, thank God, but the contestants would still have to impress not only a panel of judges but the fans who would be casting their votes to keep their favorite celebrities on the show. Soul would also, he learned conveniently only seconds before they arrived at the studio, be forced to stay in a “dorm” of sorts with his competition, and he was sure that through some very creative editing, he would find himself at the center of at least four different love triangles. At least.

Soul truly hoped that the esteemed panel was impressed by his microwaving skills and his ability to cook eggs sixteen different ways because that was the extent of his kitchen prowess. Wes reassured him that his popularity and nostalgia factor would keep him in the running, but Soul didn’t think one tacky hit pop song from the late 90s was going to save him from public humiliation and perhaps jail time for killing innocent people with biological weapons disguised as _food_.

But what the hell, right? Soul had already hit rock bottom with a botched attempt at a solo album. There was nowhere to go but up.

Most of his new housemates looked familiar. Some were old pop stars, like him, or former child actors who lost their appeal after puberty and would kill a man for another chance at stardom. Others were athletes or directors or nerdy tech app builders -- probably slightly more successful people who had time to kill or an agenda to push. Not that Soul could really judge; he was only here to casually drop the name of Kim’s new song and get the hell out of there.

Soul was not a social creature by nature but he still managed to coolly greet some of the others before ducking away to spend time alone in his new room, dropping his luggage on the ground thoughtlessly. It was fairly large with a queen sized bed, television, computer, desk, and spacious closet. He didn’t have to share the space like some college kid, though rumor had it all ten competitors would share a kitchen and a “confession” room where they could talk shit and cry. It all sounded completely uncool and asinine -- if Soul had it his way, he would be sent home the first week. Just enough time to “casually” mention Kim’s song, _The Language of Letting Go_ (named after some corny self help book she wouldn’t shut up about, God help him), and be on his merry way.

Unfortunately the room lacked any sort of fridge (he bet some of the more high maintenance C-listers would be calling their mediocre agents tonight or taking to Twitter to complain), which meant that Soul would have to risk socializing to grab something to eat. He heaved himself off of the bed with a sigh and crept into the kitchen, hoping to avoid any awkward human contact. He wasn’t good with strangers.

He wasn’t good with _anyone_ really.

It looked like the coast was mostly clear. The only other person in the kitchen was a short, lithe familiar-ish looking blond girl with some of the most attractively muscled biceps and shoulders he had ever seen. She was probably an athlete -- Olympic gymnast, maybe, given how compact she was -- and she only looked up from her sandwich to give him a small smile and a nod of recognition. Cautiously, Soul nodded back and quickly stuck his head in the refrigerator to avoid any conversation.

Women were, for the most part, nothing but trouble. They approached Soul with Wes in mind, under the delusion that sleeping with the mediocre brother would somehow get them a chance with the successful one. Even as a teen, Soul had never been one for casual sex, especially with pop groupies, and he certainly didn’t need a lingering reminder of his inferiority in the form of a nameless woman with too much lipstick and perfume. He was an expert at doing the self loathing thing all on his own, thank you very much.

“Hey, Soul?”

Soul scowled, hoping that the three string cheeses he unattractively shoved into his mouth would deter this girl from trying to talk to him. She was cute, he would admit that much, but he just wasn’t here to help launch her career by getting into some on camera hookup. He had enough of his own, organic drama; there was no need to add fake, TV drama to his ever growing list of worries.

 Apparently, Blondie couldn’t take the hint. “So -- " 

“Okay, look,” Soul said thickly, once he choked down all the food in his mouth, “I’m going to make this _really_ easy for you. No, I’m not going to introduce you to Wes Evans. No, I never hooked up with Liz Thompson. Finally, no comment on Harvar’s sexuality and it’s seriously fucked how fixated people are on it.”

She scowled at him and Soul steeled himself for the inevitable and mostly deserved verbal and/or physical assault. “I was just going to let you know that the camera’s rolling and,” she nodded towards him, “your fly’s undone.”

Soul fumbled the fourth string cheese and it fell on the floor as he scrambled for his zipper. He felt like an idiot, had acted like an asshole, and, of course, it had been caught by the entire camera crew. They looked at each other gleefully, giving Soul the thumbs up.  The girl, the one who had only been trying to help, apparently, took her sandwich and stalked towards the confession room.

She purposely left the door ajar. “The egos on these D-list, washed up, overcompensating pop star jerks is just _unreal._ ”

Soul could almost hear Wes laughing all the way from New York.

* * *

The first thing Soul did the next morning was leave Wes a very scathing, vaguely threatening voicemail for bullying him into this shit show.

The second thing Soul did was learn the blond girl’s name -- _Just Maka,_ she scowled when the host of the show accidentally called her _Maka Albarn_ \-- and then promptly sabotaged her chicken dish during their first cooking challenge.

 _The Hunger Games_ encouraged drama and cheating and sabotage, after all, and since Soul wasn’t going to make it past the first episode, he figured he might as well go out with a bang. It was a comfort to know that many of the other contestants were also lackluster cooks -- truth be told, Maka’s chicken was undercooked and over seasoned, even without him secretly adding a whole jar of wasabi to her sauce -- and it was almost _fun_ to participate, even if it was only for a short time. He didn’t have to think about Kim’s song or his own failures. He could just be himself.

“I’ll kill you,” Maka growled under her breath when time was called and the panel of judges got ready to taste their dishes. One of them bit into her chicken and immediately started dry heaving. “I know you did something to my dish. Admit it.”

Soul smirked and leaned on the countertop, leering up at her. “You know what they say: if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

Her eyes narrowed. Even though Soul had recently learned that she was an author, not an athlete as he first guessed, there was no question that she could probably murder him with her bare hands. There was something charming about her glare, maybe even a little attractive, but Soul quickly squashed that thought down and put it away in the mental file _To Be Unpacked Never_. He couldn’t stop grinning and Maka couldn’t stop hissing at him like a cat who had gotten sprayed with a hose; Soul was almost sorry that after tonight he would be gone and would never get to tease her again.

“What’s up with you not using your last name?” Soul asked conversationally as the judges moved on to a beef dish that was so raw it was practically mooing. “That only works for Madonna or Cher.”

Maka’s mouth thinned into a tight line. “Stop talking to me. You’re the enemy.”

He chuckled. “I really hate to break this to you, but you’re not going to win this competition.”

Her hand slammed down on the table, shaking all of the condiments. “How dare you? You don’t know that!”

“I’m not sure the judges appreciated _Salmonella à la Maka_. Pretty sure that’s an automatic disqualification, actually,” Soul said lazily. “Who cares? No one here’s to win, anyway. They all just want their fifteen minutes. Aren’t you pushing that novel of yours?”

“ _Tales From Death City_ is a book of poetry, you uncultured -- uncultured -- ” Soul raised an eyebrow, “-- uncultured sack of potatoes!”

Soul burst out laughing. “Did you just call me a _sack of potatoes_? Man, I’ve been called a lot of things but never a sack of potatoes.”

Maka struggled to keep a straight face, head held high, cheeks flushed with indignation, but he could see that her lips kept threatening to quirk upwards. God, it was fun to bother her. Of all of the plastic wannabes, Maka seemed the most genuine. She didn’t lose her panties over celebrities. She wasn’t trying to use him to get closer to his brother. He didn’t find her popping out of his trash or sneaking around corners to take weird cellphone pictures to sell on the internet -- _yet._ Soul was withholding judgment. The cynic in him wasn’t ready to accept that there was someone in this world who wasn’t actively trying to fuck him over for their personal gain.

But Maka had an artless, approachable, country girl sort of vibe to her, despite all appearances. She also seemed competitive, loud, bossy, and reckless, quick to chop off his hand even if he did offer it to help. He wondered what kind of poetry a girl like that would write. Probably tacky, cheesy, romantic prose, he thought with a snicker. Then again, Soul wasn’t much of a writer either, if his last album flop was any indication.

Neither Soul nor Maka were voted off of the show that night. Despite their abysmal cooking skills, they were apparently a big hit with the audience -- one of the camera men whispered that people were hungry for more interaction between the two since the zipper incident -- and they had been saved from elimination by bored housewives who had nothing better to do on a Friday night.

They parted to their respective rooms, Maka promising revenge for her fallen chicken. Soul quipped that he would be looking forward to it. The cameramen gave another thumbs up and they both slammed their bedroom doors shut with a blush.

* * *

Soul’s curiosity was piqued about the strange girl who was obsessed with winning a fake reality TV show, so he did what any other normal person would do: he looked Maka up on the internet.

He sat down at his laptop and typed _Maka Albarn_ into the search engine. There were a couple of academic articles from her college years at Columbia (a nerd through and through, just as he suspected), a link to a profile on fic-you.net (super nerdy, Soul amended, and a quick scroll reassured him that she never wrote Real Person Fanfic about his band, which he was eternally grateful for because he never, ever wanted to delve into the minds of those who coined the term “scarfshipping” in regards to him and his bandmate, Harvar) and finally, oddly enough, he wound up at a website dedicated to the book _A Lone Spirit’s Journey,_ one of those trashy romance novels that lonely women devoured and Soul generally turned his elitist nose up at.

“ _To my dearest baby angel, Maka_ ,” Soul read outloud, blinking rapidly at the dedication on the first page of the e-book, “ _who is Papa’s everything_.”

Well, that solved _that_ mystery. Soul wouldn’t want to be associated with Spirit Albarn, either. The guy had a picture of himself on the jacket of his book with an open shirt and windblown hair like he was a ginger Fabio. The book was an autobiographical account of Spirit’s “love of women”, his “journey to recognize that beauty comes in all forms and all women were meant to be desired” but Soul thought that it was just a pathetic attempt to romanticize Spirit’s inability to keep it in his pants. The secondhand embarrassment was too much for Soul’s delicate heart and he closed the tab quickly.

He typed in _Tales From Death City_ next and clicked the _buy_ button. Maybe that would put him back into her good graces. Then again, probably not, Soul thought with a snort. She definitely looked like the type to hold a grudge, even over something as stupid as ruined chicken.

The poetry was a bit darker than he would have guessed and a little too purple for his taste, but her style was interesting. The world she built was Tim Burton-esque; creepy but not unwelcoming, strange but not unapproachable. Some of the poems were romantic and bordered on erotic (what exactly did she mean by “going _soul deep_ ”? Sounded like a pretty, roundabout way to talk about good, old fashioned banging, but he digressed) and they seemed like the kind of thing college girls trying to be deep and mysterious would eat up.

Still. Something about her writing resonated within him, and Soul found himself becoming more and more intrigued by the enigma that was Maka Albarn.

His cell phone buzzed and Soul groped for it, nearly falling off his desk chair in a lazy attempt not to have to get up. A message from Wes. Against his better judgment, Soul opened the text.

_Hey, did you know that Twitter is obsessed with you and Maka Albarn? They’re calling it #zippershipping. We can work with this. Call me._

Attached was a screenshot that Wes had taken from Twitter with unforgettable gems such as “when r they going to just fuck already, jfc!! #zippershipping” and “things are heaten up in the kitchen and it ain’t the stoves, dayum that chemistry!!! #zippershipping #eyesex #hothothot”.

“ _Zippershipping_ , Jesus fucking Christ,” Soul wheezed, nearly careening backwards right onto the floor. “Where the hell do people come up with this stuff?”

His unfinished sheet music for Kim’s song, _The Language of Letting Go,_ fluttered to the floor in the wake of his laughing and flailing. Mediocre, cliché lyrics about love and heartbreak were written, rewritten, crossed out and erased. Words were not Soul’s forte; he had always been more of a melody guy, preferring to let the music speak for itself.

Soul looked back at _Tales From Death City,_ with its poor sales and bittersweet charm _._ “Something college girls would eat up, huh?”

He could definitely work with this.

* * *

 The dessert round of the competition was probably the hardest for Soul, since it was extremely difficult to fake being able to bake a cake that didn’t taste like literal garbage. There were only four other competitors left and they all looked as bewildered as he felt. Soul couldn’t imagine that any of them could come up with something edible, but then again, he never imagined that he could make it all the way to the semifinals.

Clearly, anything was possible.

Soul settled on a chocolate cake because that seemed safe. Everyone liked chocolate cake. He had no idea how many eggs, how many cups of flour or sugar, or how much chocolate he would need for this recipe so, like everything else he had been doing in this competition, he decided to wing it.

The batter _looked_ right but Soul wasn’t brave enough to taste it, even with his stomach of steel. He said a silent little prayer for the safety of the judges, who were all chugging Pepto Bismol as a safety precaution, and stuck it in the oven, which had thankfully been preheated by the show’s staff. Now all he had to do was wait. Sticking his earbuds into his ears, Soul turned on some music and put his head in his arms so that the other competitors wouldn’t try to make idle conversation with him.

Things were fine, if not a little boring, he thought, until he smelled smoke.

Smoke coming from _his_ oven.

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Soul swore as he watched a team of EMTs rush in to extinguish the fire. It was small, thank God, and the smoke was contained quickly by the emergency personnel (who were on hand at all times and rightly so), which Soul was grateful for. He had enough problems without adding Murder By Cake to the list.

He wasn’t even particularly attached to the cake or upset by its destruction but _how in the hell had it caught on fire so quickly_? It had only been a few minutes since he put the damn thing in the oven!

Maka Albarn looked up from where she was messily decorating her cupcakes and gave him a big smile.

“‘If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen’, right?”

Soul was dumbfounded, but incredibly impressed at Maka’s pure nerve to almost set an entire kitchen on fire in her quest for vengeance.

_Touché._

* * *

 “I hate that guy,” Maka said during the final challenge, nodding towards a gentleman with very oddly pointed hair and Coke bottle glasses. Soul recognized him as Ox Ford, some _nouveau riche_ tech geek who invented a dating app for other geeks who couldn’t get laid.  “He’s such a jerk. We went to college together and he thinks he’s so much better than everyone. He needs to be taken down.”

Soul looked around and realized that Maka was, in fact, talking to him. This made him an accomplice in whatever scheme she was planning. He hoped it was safer than felony arson. “Yeah?”

She leaned back on the counter. “Let’s trap him in a bathroom so he misses the challenge. Just lock him in.”

Okay, so she had moved on from arson to _kidnapping_. “Maybe you should scale it down a little. It’ll cut back on the lawsuits from all the emotional scarring. Sometimes the classics are the best.”

Maka narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m listening.”

He leaned in closer to her, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Switch the sugar and the salt.”

“ _That’s_ your great plan?” Maka asked, indignant at the simplicity of it all. “That’s terrible!”

“No, it’s not. First of all, no one will go to jail. Second of all, just think how crazy it would drive a perfectionist like him trying to figure out where he went wrong,” Soul said. “He’ll be thinking about it for days, weeks after the competition is over. Lying awake at night wondering what he could have done differently. Maybe even crying because you got farther in the competition.”

“That,” Maka breathed, “is pure evil and I _love_ it. But just know that after this? It’s every man for himself. Don’t think I’ll cut you any slack in the finals.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

After a night of gorging themselves on the complimentary pastries given to them by actual chefs and caterers to celebrate successfully fucking with Ox and making it into the finals, Maka and Soul were ushered into confession room in a shameless last ditch effort to boost the show’s ratings. One of the producers had tried to broach the topic of #zippershipping but Soul and Maka smoothly steered the conversation away from any potential romance towards something so much more entertaining: mean tweets.

Especially mean tweets about Soul.

He took it all in stride, laughing, rather than crying, at all of the terrible things people on the internet had to say about him. Soul was used to it. Fans and haters were vicious and, loathe as he was to admit it, _really_ fucking funny in their quest to shred the egos of famous people. And honestly, he had hated himself much longer than these nerds, so nothing they said could even come close to things he thought on a daily basis.

“This tweet from @idntwearcomdoms reads: If I recorded myself simultaneously throwing up & having explosive diarrhea it would still sell more copies than @SoulEvans’ last train wreck,” Soul read out loud.

Maka gasped and Soul appreciated how offended she was on his behalf. “Oh my God, that’s horrible!”

“@imonmyperiod writes: @SoulEvans looks like an extra in Sharknado. #gotothedentistyousonofabitch.”

She tried to hold in the laughter by burying her face in her arms but they did little to hide her giggle-snorts. Soul continued on. “@nipnopz6969: Someone please create a kickstarter to fund @SoulEvans never making another album again.”

Maka whistled. “Nipnopz6969 is brutal.”

“I can’t believe you just said _Nipnopz6969._ ”

“You said it first!”

“It sounds extra ridiculous when you say it, though,” Soul said. “You know it does.”

Maka nudged his shoulder. “Are there any about me?”

He typed her name into Twitter, wondering if she knew what she was getting herself into. Soul was used to bad publicity and fans who had hate shrines dedicated to him (ah, the days of Myspace, he thought nostalgically, with its glitter text and shitty gifs). Maka was tough but was internet tough? “Okay, here’s one from @acagedbirb: If I had a choice between reading @Maka’s new book or sticking my dick in the trash compactor, I would choose the trash compactor.”

“...” Maka narrowed her eyes and pointed to the camera. “I’m coming for you, a caged birb.”

“You should be scared, man. Those guns look loaded.” Soul tilted his head towards her arms.

“Also, what’s with the obsession with your teeth? I think they have character,” Maka said, the picture of innocence as she leaned in way too closely to his face. “They’re kind of cute.”

Soul could almost hear the #zippershipping fandom collectively lose their shit. The producers were practically pissing themselves with glee and the editors were salivating over the commercial possibilities. Maka was either a PR genius or completely oblivious. Soul was starting to think it was the latter and he liked that about her.

He leaned away from her and grinned, making sure all his teeth were on view for her pleasure.  “Thanks.”

They read a few more mean tweets ranging from criticisms of Soul’s too tight skinny jeans to Maka’s boyish figure and even a hidden gem about Wes’ “creeper” face before the crew called it a night. Maka and Soul polished off the rest of the pastries in the shared living room, one of them whispering _nipnops_ every so often,effectively making the other snort. This was the perfect time to broach the topic of teaming up, Soul thought. They got along decently, Maka didn’t seem like a soul sucking scumbag, and he could be over and done with this song with the added bonus of never having to associate with Kim Diehl ever again.

“So, I’m writing this song.” Subtlety had never been Soul’s strong point.

Maka nodded. “Right. _The Language of Letting Go._ I remember you mentioning it a couple of times.Interesting name.”

“I didn’t pick it,” he sighed. “I’m at the whim of a very temperamental pop diva.”

She winced, looking genuinely sorry for him. “That’s rough.”

Soul bit into his third cupcake. “I’ve got the melody down but I’m having some trouble with the lyrics.” Maka blinked at him. “I read your stuff. It’s good.”

“Tha -- ”

“Let’s partner up.”

Her brows furrowed, lips puckering slightly in confusion. “Ha? You want me to help you write a song? I’m no musician. Seriously, they kicked me out of the chorus in the third grade. Who gets kicked out of public school chorus? Me. I did.”

He choked back a laugh imagining a tiny Maka getting escorted off stage, kicking and screaming, during a public school holiday recital. “It’s fine, I have that covered. It’s your words I need.”

Maka abruptly stood up and brushed herself off. “I’m flattered, but I’m really trying to concentrate on my book sales right now.” As she should, Soul thought a little meanly, because they were seriously lacking. “So, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Will you at least think about it?” Soul asked. “You don’t have to answer right now. We _did_ make a pretty good team during the competition, didn’t we?”

“Sorry,” Maka said again, turning her back to him. Her body language was sharp and tense like an angry little animal bristling. “My answer won’t change. Good night.”

She stalked off and slammed her bedroom door behind her leaving Soul alone with a box full of unfinished pastries, a lot of unanswered questions, and most of all, the impending dread of having to face Wes about his failure to recruit Maka Albarn.

* * *

“I do _not_ have a creeper face.”

Soul grinned into the phone. “You know the internet is nothing but brutally honest, Wes. Anyway, the whole thing with Maka was a no go.”

“That’s not going to work. You’ve got to get her on board no matter what. People love you two. There’s drama and sabotage -- the chemistry is _explosive_! Just think how much attention Kim’s song would get if you two were working together!”

He flopped back onto his bed, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the blankets and forget Kim’s song and this stupid show and goddamn # _zippershipping_. “I asked. She refused. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“You need to turn up the charm factor. Seduce her a little. Use that Evans sex appeal that’s hidden deep, deep, deep down beneath all of that cynicism and general hatred of the human populace.”

Soul barked out a laugh at the thought of him effectively seducing anyone, but Wes continued on. “What’s it going to take to get her to say yes?”

“No idea.” Soul shrugged even though Wes couldn’t see it. “She said she wants to concentrate on her book sales. Gotta respect that about her. She’s stubborn as hell.”

“It just so happens that I have a genius idea that will benefit all parties involved.”

“Forgive me for not trusting your ‘genius ideas’ but need I remind you about the Shiny Pleather Pants incident of 1999?” Soul asked.

“Hey, those were in style! For once in your life just be quiet and let your big brother handle this, okay? I’ve got this.”

Soul sighed again, a deep, soul suffering sigh. “No puffy jackets and denim jumpsuits this time, I hope?”

“I make no promises,” Wes said gleefully. “I like to keep my options open.”

* * *

Wes’ “genius” plan came to fruition the last night of the competition.

Both Soul and Maka had been beat out in the season finale by a teenager named Angela, who played a quirky high school aged witch on the Disney channel. It was only fair, Soul thought, because she was the only one in the whole competition who had managed _not_ to send any of the judges to the emergency room. Maka was genuinely disappointed and upset with her loss; Soul was glad to finally be getting back to his cave and so he could hermit in peace.

He was packing his luggage when his door burst open, a panting, red faced Maka standing in his doorway. She was wide eyed and words, for once, were escaping her.

“What’s up?” Soul asked.

“What’s _up_?! Don’t play dumb!” Maka strode into his room uninvited. “I just got a call from my publisher that _every physical copy_ of my book has been sold!”

Soul threw a pair of jeans into his bag. “That’s cool. Congrats.”

“Don’t ‘that’s cool’ me, Soul Evans!” Maka grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him towards her. For a hot second, Soul thought that she was going to either kiss him or head butt him and honestly, he wasn’t sure which one he deserved more. “I _know_ you bought all the books and then donated them to school libraries. You didn’t even do it anonymously! What’s your game? What’s your angle?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, the picture of calm and cool, despite his rapidly thumping heart. “You said you were concerned about your book sales. Now you don’t have to be. Plus a lot of underprivileged kids will have access to your writing. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

She stared at him intensely and his heart did an odd flop right into his stomach. Her eyes were bright and fierce, full of fire and passion and maybe murder. “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you right in the face.”

“I’d prefer the former.”

Maka squinted. “Are you trying to blackmail me into helping you write this song?”

Soul sputtered. “No! What the hell, _no._ Blackmail you how? ‘Maka, write this song for me or I’m going to take books back from orphans’? That’s a pretty dick move.”

“You put a jar of wasabi into my sauce. I don’t know if you can be trusted!” Maka exclaimed.

“You need to let that go.”

“ _Never._ ”

He untangled her hands from his shirt. “Look. I can see that you’re a really driven person. Stubborn, reckless, headstrong -- ”

“Hey!”

“-- and I know that you’re trying to make a name for yourself outside of your old man.” Maka made a little, angry bird noise that was almost endearing. “You never use your last name. You came on this joke of a show and you actually tried to win. Tell me I’m wrong.”

She tossed her hair back, expression hard. “So, what? I don’t need _him_ to get my stuff out there.”

“So,” Soul continued, encouraged that Maka hadn’t shanked him with her hairclip yet, “like it or not, Spirit Albarn is dominating the writing game right now. People are going to compare the two of you. Trust me, I know all about getting into the same business as a relative.”

Her face softened a bit and it reeked of sympathy. It was no secret that Wes was the better of the two brothers: more talented, more driven, more charismatic. Soul had made peace with it. “I’m not trying to strongarm you into this, but if you write the song, you’d be getting your name out there in a way your dad never has. The world will see your writing for what it is.”

No doubt Maka was thinking about all of the Amazon book reviews that quoted her father’s book or expressed disappointment that Maka’s poems were not nearly as enthralling as Spirit’s romps with meter maids to get out of parking tickets. “Do you really like my writing?” she asked at last.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” Soul said. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing Soul would read on a daily basis, but he had been interested enough to finish the book, which was more than he could say for 99% of the other stories out there.

“Which poem did you like the best?”

A test. Soul had never been good at those, but this time he had come prepared. “ _Requiem for the Reaper._ ”

She looked surprised. “You actually read it.”

“Well, yeah. How could I justify buying five thousand copies of a book I’ve never read?”

Maka crossed her arms over her chest, rocking back and forth on her feet a bit. “... I would get full creative control over the lyrics?”

Soul nodded. “A hundred percent. It just has to go with the song title. And look, all I’m asking is for you to try. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.”

They stared at each other for a few more moments before Maka let her arms fall to her sides, posture less defensive and more relaxed. “Okay. You’ve got a deal. I’ll help write this song.”

“Gre -- ”

“But,” Maka said, poking him hard in the chest, “there’s no _try,_ got it? If I’m going to attach my name to something, it’s going to be the best damn song in the world, okay? I’m talking Grammy material here.”

Jesus, what he wouldn’t give for a fraction of this woman’s nerves or drive. “I got it,” Soul chuckled. “Then it’s a deal. Partners?”

Maka stuck out her hand and he took it. “Partners.”

Maybe, Soul thought with some amusement, he _did_ have a little bit of that Evans charm after all.


	2. I Want It That Way

 Maka Albarn was taking a leap of faith.

A very ill-advised, very foolish leap of faith.

She had been burned by people before -- _men,_ more specifically -- and was still nursing her wounds, but ultimately Maka wanted to have faith in others. She wanted to trust the grumpy, sarcastic, skinny jean clad, ex-boyband member who poisoned her chicken. She wanted to believe that something great could come out of this makeshift partnership and she wouldn’t be left standing alone with nothing to show for it.

More importantly, she wanted to become famous on her own merit _without_ being associated with her father’s terrible porn novel.

It was probably a mistake to trust Soul Evans, Maka thought, and she was just asking to be screwed over again by another schmuck who wanted her talent, but she couldn’t help but hope that maybe, despite their polar opposite personalities, they were kindred spirits reaching out into the same void to try and find purpose and recognition.

The plane ride home was quiet and mostly uneventful. Maka typed away at her laptop and sipped complimentary sodas while Soul, an anxious flyer, popped a tiny blue pill and snored into her ear the entire flight from Los Angeles to New York City. The snoring had been a little cute, at first, but the drooling all over her shoulder became a problem. Luckily, a couple of well meaning nudges and a fist full of Kleenex in his mouth had resolved that quickly enough.

Like most everyone else in the city, Soul and Maka only lived a train ride away from one another. That was where the similarities ended. Their lifestyles were otherwise incomparable. Maka was lucky to be able to afford a studio apartment above a grocery store in downtown Brooklyn; Soul enjoyed the luxury of a penthouse condo in the heart of Manhattan.

 _He has a tennis court and a pool_ , Maka thought with wonder. _So this is how the one percent lives._

It was inconceivable to imagine living in such a beautiful place considering that Maka struggled to get through the winter with her cracked windows and poorly insulated studio. She wondered what life was like without worrying about rodent problems and chipped paint falling into your breakfast cereal. Soul must have been living off of some pretty sweet residuals and, though she would never admit it, Maka was just the tiniest bit envious.

Unless she achieved JK Rowling status with her books, Maka could kiss castles in the sky and properly heated apartments goodbye.

“This setup just isn’t working for me,” Maka announced about three seconds into Soul’s grand tour of his Manhattan apartment ( _ground tour_ being loosely defined as Soul sitting on his ass, pointing to various rooms, and calling out their names). It was a beautiful space with stark white walls, sparse, modern looking furniture and paintings that probably cost more than her entire college education. A grand piano was set near a multitude of bare windows in the foyer. Though Maka tended to be a bit more traditionalist in her decorating, she could appreciate his aesthetic.

And apparently Soul took design very seriously, because he _almost_ lit up when she complimented his antique record player and clawed bathtub.

He eyed her wearily from his seat on a very expensive looking black leather love seat. Soul was blinking at her sleepily, still trying to fight off the effects of jetlag and anxiety meds from their long flight. Maka was almost feeling sorry for him when she remembered how he sabotaged her chicken; her pity evaporated instantly. She would neither forgive nor forget. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The piano is way too far from the couch,” she stated. “How are we going to work together when I’m practically in another borough? Get up for a second.”

Soul wasn’t moving fast enough for her liking, so Maka starting shoving the couch with him still sitting on it. He yelped in surprise and swore but picked up his legs as she pushed it closer to the piano. “Are you going to rearrange the whole apartment?” Soul asked dryly.

“Maybe. The Feng Shui is all off for lyric writing.” A jungle of green by his window sills caught her sharp, critical eye. “What’s up with the plants? You don’t really seem like a plant guy.” He looked like he could barely take care of himself let alone another living thing.

“Wes -- my brother bought them for me,” he groused. “Something about making the place warmer and more approachable.”

She thumbed the leaf of a large ficus. “How’s that working for you?”

“My only company in the last four months has been a woman I met on a reality TV show. What do you think?”

Maka snorted and took it upon herself to pick up a watering can and feed all the thirsty little plants. “I think you need a new game plan.”

He didn’t disagree. Instead he rolled his eyes and hauled himself up from the couch to slump his way over the piano. Soul cracked his knuckles and stretched, and although his posture was usually piss poor, an orthopedist’s worst nightmare, his spine was perfectly erect as he sat at the piano. “Alright, enough messing around. Let’s write.”

She put down the watering can and sat on the newly moved couch, pencil and pad in hand. Soul played the melody of the song once and Maka nodded approvingly. It was sweet and slow, more ballad than run-of-the-mill pop song. “That’s nice. I like it.”

“Thanks."

Maka tapped the pencil against her chin. “Give me the first line again?”

Soul sighed, obviously pained to even have to utter the lyric out loud. He had said that it was Kim’s “suggestion” and they would win major points with her if they incorporated it into the song. “ _We met like a blank page meeting a paint brush._ ”

“Really?”

“Maka, come on. We’re not writing the next great American novel here. Don’t be picky.”

He played the melody again. Maka quickly scribbled something on her notepad. “ _We met like a blank page meeting a paint brush / I said let’s take it slow, never one to rush.”_

Soul got that _look_ again, the almost-excited one where his usually uninterested eyes brightened and a smile was close to the surface. “That’s good. That’s good, keep going.”

They attempted to come up with something coherent resembling a song, but their efforts were constantly interrupted by Soul yawning or completely nodding off every couple of minutes. Maka was faring no better -- she was starving and her stomach was rumbling in rebellion. To her surprise, Soul tried to power through despite the awful lyrics they were coming up with (Maka was ashamed to admit that in her hungry state she tried to lazily rhyme “skies” with “skies”-- a huge lyric faux pas). His eagerness was testament to just how important this was song was to him, Maka supposed, but probably more a testament to how much he just wanted to be done with it.

Maka threw her pad down and stood up. “Actually, let’s take a break and grab lunch. I’m hungry.”

His forehead crashed against the keys with a cacophony of unpleasant noises. “Come on, we just started. _The stars turned circles around the skies_ \--”

“ _No more lyrics will be written until Maka gets some fries_ ,” she finished and tugged him to stand. “You need some coffee. Badly. I am not writing one more word until we are properly fed and rested. Don’t think I won’t throw you over my shoulder and carry you to a diner. Any complaints?”

“Mrrrgh,” Soul garbled and let himself be pulled along.

She smiled sweetly. “I thought so.”

* * *

His aviator sunglasses and hood combination was a little melodramatic (the standard fare for him, perhaps?) but all Soul said when she commented was, “The sun can suck it.”

Maybe it was her imagination, but Maka could swear that people were taking particular notice of them as they walked down the street to the diner near Soul’s apartment. Some of the bystanders even looked like they were surreptitiously trying to take cellphone pictures, but Maka chalked it up to her slight paranoia and Soul’s ex-celebrity status. He didn’t look like he noticed or cared, so Maka chose to stay quiet. She didn’t want to ruin the nice, friendly rapport they had built by bringing up something that would probably make him uncomfortable. Despite appearing on the world’s dumbest reality TV show, Soul didn’t seem the type to want excessive attention and that secretly earned him a couple of extra points with her.

They sat down to eat and quickly gave up on coherent conversation in exchange for comfortable silence and stuffing themselves on breakfast foods. Maka slapped Soul’s hand away every time he tried to sneak a fry off her plate even though he had an entire stack of breakfast potatoes to himself and he whined pitifully. She was much too soft, she thought as she forked a couple of fries into his plate, but it did make him smile for the first time since they were in LA so her sacrifice was not in vain.

Maka was gathering her courage to ask about the sudden death of his music career when a tall, handsome, well dressed blond man dropped into the booth next to her. She instantly recognized him as Wes Evans, older brother to Soul Evans, and Soul groaned loudly enough to get the attention of the family in the booth next to them.

He took the salt shaker, poured some salt into his hand and tossed it at his older brother. “Begone, evil spirit. Stop haunting my life.”

Wes ignored him and took one of Maka’s hands in his. Soul groaned even louder. “Wes Evans. A pleasure.” Maka sputtered out her own name and something like _Nice to meet you_ but it only came out a slurry mess of broken words. Maka was not the type to be starstruck but Wes Evans in the flesh was _incredibly_ handsome. She allowed herself a full ten seconds to moon over his kind blue eyes and perfect smile before pulling herself together.

“What do you want, Wes?” Soul asked rudely, flipping his shades back on, as if the sight of his brother was hurting his eyes.

“Can’t a person just come by to say hello to his favorite little brother?” Wes flagged a waitress down, flashed his million watt smile, autographed a napkin for her, and obtained a coffee. “There’s no need to be so hostile, Solomon.”

Maka’s eyebrows shot up. “ _Solomon?_ ”

Soul kicked Wes sharply under the table. “How did you even know I was here, you stalker?”

Though he was wincing from the assault, Wes, ever the professional, managed to keep his smile pleasant. “I do live in the neighborhood, you know. I just happened to run into you.”

“Right,” Soul drawled. “My ass you did. What do you want?”

“Well, since I have the two of you here--”

“Here we fucking go,” Soul crossed his arms and Maka bit down a smile at his sulky expression. “I knew it. You have a scheme.”

Wes blinked and put his hand over his heart. “Soul, I’m hurt. Here I am trying to give you professional advice and you think the worst of me.”

“Two words: Shiny. Pants.”

“You know,” Wes said, “1999 was a hard year for everyone. You need to let it go.”

Maka cleared her throat and stuck her arm out to stop Soul from throwing the salt shaker at Wes’ beautiful face. “I can just go if you need to speak with Soul.”

“Oh no,” Wes said cheerfully, “I actually wanted to speak with _both_ of you. As I’ve been telling my stubborn little brother, you two have become quite the internet sensation. Not just on Twitter but on all sorts of social media. See for yourself.”

Wes held out his cellphone to her and Maka took it hesitantly. She scrolled through various screens, mouth hanging open wider and wider with each passing article or blog post. From Zippershipping Confession Tumblrs to The Hunger Games Dreamwidth Role Playing, there was no platform that had gone uncharted. Soul looked supremely bored, not that Maka could blame him. He was probably used to all this attention.

She squirmed in her seat, shoving the phone back into Wes’ hands. Maka didn’t want to look prudish or innocent but it was _mortifying_ to have people assume that she and Soul were a couple. She could only imagine what would happen once they figured out they were working together professionally outside of the show. That would be enough fic fodder for _years_ and then some.

“As you can see, you two are _very_ popular.” Wes put his phone down. “I think this is something you could capitalize on.”

Soul looked unimpressed. Maka felt the blood rush to her face. “W-what do you mean?”

He folded his fingers together, ever the businessman, even in a rundown hole in the wall diner. “Word has already gotten out that you two are working together on Kim’s song.”

“Gee, I wonder how,” Soul said sarcastically. “Which trashy blog writer did you bang to get it published so fast?”

“It wouldn’t hurt if the two of you were seen together, if you know what I mean,” Wes said delicately, returning a kick to Soul under the table. “More to the point, it might be a good idea not to confirm or deny any of those dating rumors.”

Soul and Maka shouted, “WHAT?!” in unison and Wes chuckled.

“Look at you two already acting like a couple! So in synch. Haha, I’m just kidding.” He gracefully dodged the napkin holder that Soul chucked at him. “Now, I’m not saying that you two have to _actually_ date but just think how much intrigue you’ll build with the fanbase. Kim’s song will get even more attention. It will be great for both of your careers.”

Maka made a noise reminiscent of a dying walrus. “I can’t. We can’t! How can we--?” She had seen enough romcoms to know that this was a _terrible_ idea for all parties involved. She was genre savvy; they would either kill each other or marry each other and Maka didn’t know which one was worse.

“You’re not dating anyone, are you?” Wes asked and Maka’s blush spread all the way down to her collarbones.

“Wes,” Soul warned. “You’re crossing a line.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Maka managed to squeak out.

“And Soul hasn’t been with a woman since Bush was in office. The first one,” Wes smiled that billion dollar smile again. Soul grunted his disapproval but offered no counter argument. “So it’s fine, isn’t it? You don’t have to get married. Just show up at a few events together until the song is released. Easy.”

Maka looked over at Soul uneasily.  “I don’t know…”

Wes took her hand in his again and Soul rose out of his seat slightly, brows furrowed. “Just think how much it’ll help your book sales.”

Game. Set. Match.

Winner: Wes Evans.

* * *

 

A strange, uncomfortable silence had taken over as they wandered back to Soul’s apartment after breakfast. Maka knew that like her, Soul was lost in his own thoughts about the whole situation -- teaming up, pretending to be an item, finishing the song. Maka wasn’t hideous by any means but she couldn’t imagine that she was someone that Soul wanted to be seen with on a romantic level. Didn’t musicians and actors like to hang around beautiful models?

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Soul asked once they were inside. He was sitting on the couch again, drumming his fingers nervously on his thighs. “We don’t have to do it.”

Maka sat down at the other end of the couch, trying not to look nervous. This was a world unknown to her but showing naivety was showing weakness and she couldn’t allow it. “Wes just said we have to show up places together sometimes, right? It’s not a big deal.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t know how awful and invasive people can be. I’m saying this from experience. Twitter is just the beginning. There are millions of garbage tabloids out there spreading lies, annoying paparazzi, and people digging into every aspect of your life.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. My life is boring.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said again. “Really.”

She realized that his concern was solely for her and her alone and it made her smile a bit. “I know. But it’ll be good for publicity, right? Whatever it takes.” Her mind flitted back to her earlier thoughts on the difference between their statuses. “Do _you_ mind?”

Soul shrugged but said nothing. Maka supposed that was the best answer she would get from him and at least it wasn’t a flat out _Fuck yes I mind._ She didn’t know if her ego could handle getting rejected from a fake relationship.

“We don’t have to decide anything right this second,” Maka suggested, picking up his remote without asking. He didn’t stop her, so she turned on the television. It took a few tries because his remote was the most complicated piece of equipment she had ever seen and was connected to way too many game stations and speakers to be legal. “Wanna watch something?”

“Whatever you want.” Soul yawned and spread out on the couch to get comfortable. “Probably going to pass out anyway.”

Maka flipped through his Netflix idly. She gasped and Soul sat straight up, looking around wildly for whatever had surprised her. “Oh my God! They have _Spirit Rider_ on here now?!”

“What the hell is _Spirit Rider?_ ”

“It’s this Japanese show that I used to watch all the time in college. It’s kind of like _X-Files_ meets _Transformers,_ ” Maka said, clicking on the first episode. Ah, yes, _Spirit Rider._ The show that was her gateway drug into fanfiction and eventually started the foray into a legit writing career. She would always have a special place in her heart for this show. “It’s soooo good! This is making me nostalgic. You need to watch an episode. Just one. Please?”

Soul quirked an eyebrow but managed to stay awake long enough to get through the extremely cheesy opening song and the first couple of minutes of the episode. “So… the girl is a cop and the guy is her partner but he also turns into a motorcycle. And they hunt down ghosts.”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah,” Maka said. “He’s kind of special because the other partner cops turn into like… cars and stuff. He’s one of the few that becomes a motorcycle.”

“And she… _rides_ him?” Soul asked, snickering like a six year old boy.

Maka threw a couch pillow at him. “Don’t be gross! It’s called _Spirit Rider,_ what did you expect? All of the riding is platonic -- stop laughing!”

His laughter was contagious and pretty soon they were both cracking up at the implications of the main character hopping on her partner motorcycle and riding him all night long. For all of his teasing, Soul was seriously hooked  and quickly clicked on the next episode as Maka picked up her phone to check her emails.

Wes.Evans@gmail.com helpfully sent along link to a popular gossip blog with an article titled: _Zippershippers rejoice as their OTP is canon_!!! Maka hesitantly clicked it, instinctively knowing that she was going to regret doing so. A picture of her and Soul walking from his apartment to the diner was at the top of the article followed by tags like: #zippershipping #soma #otp: zip me up before you go go. The article itself was fairly innocuous, speculating on their relationship status, and Maka couldn’t help but be impressed at how fast Wes Evans worked.

“Uh… wow, okay,” Maka said awkwardly, clicking the rest of the links Wes had emailed her. She snorted with laughter and Soul tore his eyes away from the screen.

“What?”

“Your brother just sent me some Zippershipping fanfiction -- you know, fan stories? -- and wow, just wow. We’re so popular,” Maka laughed. She cleared her throat and began to read. “‘ _Soul is a nubile young freshman, Maka is his new literature professor. Will their forbidden love survive the semester? -- Lemony goodness. Don’t like don’t read!!! No flames please._ ’”

Soul made a strangled noise and grabbed at her phone, trying to see the screen. Maka held it out of his reach, so he was nearly in her lap as he read along. “Please, God, no. Not again. I thought these days were behind me.”

Maka continued on bravely. “‘ _Coffee Shop AU: A quiet, plain, ~*~virginal~*~ barista falls under the spell of a snowy haired, ruby orbed sex god regular who wants more from her than just coffee. -- rated M for citrus.’_ ”

“What the fuck.”

“‘ _In this fic, Maka is a boy. YAOI, sorry, summary sucks. Send 10 reviews for chapter two’_ ,” Maka read and squinted. “That sounds racist and problematic. Is it because I’m half Japanese? No, little writers… don’t go down this road.”

Soul blinked at her. “‘Yaoi’?”

Maka snorted. “Never mind. It’s better for you to remain pure.”

“The internet is a dark place,” Soul said grimly. “Didn’t know you were half Japanese.”

“My mother is from Japan. I look more like my father, though. He’s American.” Maka cringed at Soul’s knowing look. “You saw his book cover, didn’t you.”

His attention was back to the television but his smirk was unmistakable. “Did he order a wind machine for that photo or what? _Loved_ the tacky cherry blossoms in the background, by the way.”

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. “So embarrassing. Now you see why I’ll do literally anything to make a name for myself outside of his stupid book.”

“Including fake dating me?”

Maka blushed hotly, glad that he was too busy watching Mika ride her motorcycle partner to notice. Her voice was quiet and embarrassingly squeaky. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it? Wes said -- ”

“Wes says a lot of things.” Soul slumped further down the couch. “Doesn’t make them right. I want you for your lyrics, not for anything else.”

“It’s fine,” Maka said, slightly more convincing now that it didn’t sound like she was a twelve year old boy going through puberty. “It’s a business move, right? We’ll promote Kim’s song, you can go off and do your music thing and I’ll keep doing my book thing. We’ll keep things friendly. Platonic.”

Soul’s expression was unreadable, seemingly immersed in the world of _Spirit Rider._ “Fine. Yeah. If you’re cool with it.”

“Yeah. So cool,” Maka insisted. “Totally fine.”

* * *

 

Maka kicked her boots off at the door, threw her keys onto her kitchen counter, and dutifully texted Soul that she had made it back to Brooklyn alive, as promised. In spite of his gruff, standoffish demeanor, she was happy to have more solid proof that Soul was a decent guy. It was almost cute how he worried about her making it home safely even though he had put her in a cab himself and Maka had reassured him, repeatedly, that she was a black belt in several martial arts. 

Her cell phone rang and without looking at the name, she put it to her ear. “Did you want me to call you when I walked through the door, too? That’s overkill, don’t you think?”

“Maka, sweetie?” Her father asked, confused.

Crud. She had just assumed it was Soul being, well, _Soul_. “Oh. Never mind. Hi, Papa.”

Spirit Albarn took a deep breath and Maka instinctively knew to inch the phone away from her face. “MAKAAAA!! What is this I hear about you dating a musician?! What have I always told you about musicians?”

What a hypocrite, Maka thought with disdain. Here he was screwing his way through the east coast _and_ making money off of it and he had the nerve to insult her fake boyfriend. “Soul’s very nice. He told me he liked me the best out of all of his girlfriends.”

“WHAT?!”

“I’m kidding,” Maka said calmly, walking over to the fridge to pour herself some iced tea. “I’m almost thirty. Don’t you think it’s a little ridiculous for you to lecture me on dating?”

Spirit whimpered pitifully. “Maka, baby, angel, light of my life, I’m only worried about you. Musicians can’t be trusted!”

She gulped down her iced tea, pouring herself another. “Are you really trying to talk to me about _faithfulness_ when your own marriage was an epic failure?” Spirit sputtered for an answer and Maka continued. “To be honest, Papa, I learned _so_ much from your book. You know, about ‘opening your heart to love in all forms’ and ‘throwing caution to the wind’ and all of that. Soul is showing me a whole new world. Did you know there are actual clubs where you can go to have sex with other people? Pretty sure you mentioned that in chapter 12.”

“MAKA!”

Maka knew that she was being cruel and that her father, despite all of his many, many, many faults, truly loved her. He might have been a train wreck of a husband but he was a good father, doting, loving, and supportive. But she could not ignore that he had dedicated an entire smutty novel to her and now the whole world knew what a degenerate he was.

“Papa, I understand what dating a musician entails.” She put her cup into the sink and made her way to the bedroom, flopping back on her bed. “I’ll be sure to keep the scandalous sex tapes to a minimum.”

He wailed out an anguished scream and Maka promptly hung up.

“Idiot,” she muttered to herself, rolling over. Maka’s phone beeped again just once -- a short goodnight text message from Soul, who promised that he would wait for her to come over tomorrow to continue _Spirit Rider_.

Maka caught herself smiling but it soon dropped when her eyes focused on the book next to her bed. _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat_ by Noah Brubeck stared back at her, taunting, making her throat tight and face burn. She knew that she should just burn it like the garbage that it was, but it served as a constant reminder not to ever trust anyone too deeply, especially a man who swore up and down that they _needed you._

It wasn’t that she afraid of love, per se, or completely ruling out a relationship with someone, but distrust and cynicism was always there, lingering the back of her mind, hindering her from getting past a first date. It didn’t seem fair, Maka thought, that someone like her with a lot of love to give was forced to cower in a corner and let all of these chances go by because of something that had happened so long ago.

It made her sad.

It made her _so angry._

She grabbed the book and angrily tossed it under her bed.

Fool her once, shame on you. Fool her twice, shame on her.

Maka would be smarter with her feelings.

She had to be.


	3. Take The Long Way Home

‘ _Wooo hooo witchy woman, see how high she flies, woo hoo witchy woman she got the moon in her eye..._ ’

Soul opened one eye and glared at his cell phone, willing it to stop ringing. He knew that it wouldn’t, though, because his mother was nothing if not stubborn and if he didn’t pick up the call he could expect a text, a voicemail, an email, and three Facebook messages to the tune of _ARE U DEAD? CALL UR MOTHER_.

“Hello?”

“And when were you going to tell me about this new mystery girlfriend of yours?” Anneliese “Annie” Evans demanded.

Soul squinted at his alarm clock; 7:04 am. A perfect time to get interrogated by his mother about his phony relationship. “How did you even -- ”

“I may be old but I’m not blind, Soul. I can read the internet perfectly well,” she quipped. “Besides, Wes told me last night when we were at dinner.”

That _fucker_. Their mom must have been laying into Wes about something -- probably that story in The Post about him and some French Prime Minister playing _hide the baguette_ on a romantic tropical island getaway -- and he dodged it by throwing Soul under the bus. Amazing that she had enough restraint to wait until the morning to call him and demand answers about Maka. “Mom --”

“God, I hope she’s better than that last girl you dated,” Annie said. “You could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes whenever she looked at you. And she’s a lesbian now, _oy_.”

“Mom,” Soul groaned. “It’s too early for me to explain why everything you just said is wrong.”

She humphed, clearly unconvinced. “I’m not judging. I’m just _saying_. When can we expect to meet Maka?”

“The relationship is still new -- ”

“All the more reason for us to meet her. I have to see who my son is associating with,” Annie insisted. “You’re my baby boy. Is it so wrong for me to take an interest in your life? Your father and I aren’t going to be around forever--” Soul groaned again but his mother was on a roll and there was no stopping her now, “-- we’re not as young as we used to be. We’re turning a corner. Who knows how many years we have left? Is it so wrong to want to have some grandchildren?”

Soul snorted. “Who knows, Wes probably has a few kids running around out there. You might be a grandmother and not even know it.”

“Bite your tongue!”

He knew it was a mistake to pick up the phone and engage in any of this. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

Annie paused thoughtfully. “I see this girlfriend of yours went to Columbia. At least she’s got brains.”

“Oh my God, you _researched_ her?”

“It doesn’t take a genius to use Google, Soul,” Annie said coolly. “I had to make sure that she didn’t have a criminal record. She’s certainly accomplished. Graduated at the top of her class, wrote numerous academic articles, and even has a book published. I bet you didn’t know she teaches a Women’s Self Defense Class.” His mom was insufferably right, as per usual. “She’s different from your _usual_ type.”

Soul rolled his eyes but didn’t take the bait. He didn’t have a type -- he just dated whichever girls approached him first. It wasn’t exactly the best strategy, because none of his relationships could ever make it past the six month mark. There was a certain lack of interest on his part that made intimacy nearly impossible and just going through the motions didn’t exactly endear him to any of his exes.

He honestly couldn’t blame them for ditching him.

“Fine, Mom. You’ve won. You can meet her.” _Three weeks from never, you emotional terrorist._

“That’s wonderful, honey! Bring her by on Friday night for Shabbat dinner. Bubbe’s going to be so excited.”

“She’s not Jewish,” Soul whined, almost pleadingly, in a last ditch effort to get his mom disinterested in this charade of a relationship.

His mother was an unstoppable force of nature and she would not be swayed. “That’s alright. I can look past it.”

“How liberal of you,” he muttered.

“ _What_ was that?”

He flinched; for all his bravado and “coolness”, Soul just wasn’t brave enough to open the floodgates of his mother’s wrath. “Nothing, Mom. See you Friday.”

Soul could practically hear her smiling in triumph. “Good. And Soul?”

 _What next?_ Soul braced himself for questions about the tightness of his pants, if he was eating enough, and one more lecture on how his motorcycle was a death machine.“Yeah?

“This is just a mother’s opinion --” Soul winced, “-- but you _really_ need a haircut. I’m not telling you what to do but that hair’s gotta go.”

Soul was a grown ass man. His mom could bully him into meeting Maka, she could bully him into dinner with his relatives, but he was not going to be bullied into getting a haircut.

His hair, his life, his rules.

* * *

Soul walked out of the hair salon and rubbed at the newly shaven side of his head.

It wasn’t his mother’s words that prompted the haircut, he reassured himself. He was planning to get one _anyway._

The salon just so happened to be right next door to BIG*STAR GYM where he was supposed to meet Maka for lunch, songwriting, and groveling for her to please take pity on him and meet his family before his mother had an aneurysm. Soul shielded his eyes and looked up at the huge, grinning visage of ex-bandmate and good friend Blake “Black*Star” Barrett, wincing as he squinted. The gold and sequins on the awning of the gym surrounding his very lifelike figure was blinding and it was quite literally the tackiest thing Soul had ever seen.

In short: it was exactly Black*Star’s aesthetic.

Why Maka chose to work out here was a mystery. Soul couldn’t understand how _anyone_ would be able concentrate with the walls of Black*Star’s “motivational” posters and statues all over the place. It felt like Big Brother was watching you, if Big Brother was a 5’5” brick house action star with ridiculous blue hair and a laugh only a mother could love.

Soul texted Maka that he had arrived and sat down on a blue velvet couch next to the biggest and gaudiest sports drink machine he had ever seen. He didn’t even know that drink machines could be bedazzled but if anyone would commission one, it would be Black*Star. Black*Star’s motto of “Go Big or Go Home” clearly included merchandising and although it often gave Soul some serious secondhand embarrassment, his friend had done alright for himself.

Soul had been a little bummed about not seeing Black*Star in months, what with his friend’s shooting schedule and numerous infomercial appearances and book signings, but now he remembered, vividly, as he stared at all of posters with Black*Star’s face on it, why distance made the heart grow fonder.

“Hey! Sorry, did you wait long?” Maka jogged over to him, throwing a towel around her neck.

It took Soul a few moments to respond because he was absolutely mesmerized by her abs, which were gloriously on display thanks to the innovation of the sports bra and shorts combo. “Nah. Was just sitting here and marveling over the classy decorating job ‘Star did on this place. I think I saw a shag carpet and an inflatable couch in the lounge area.”

“That’s nothing. There’s a heated pool downstairs shaped like his face,” Maka said. “I can’t bring myself to go in it. His eyes follow me everywhere. Oh!” She suddenly reached over and starting touching his hair, brushing her fingers through the longer parts on top and rubbing the shaved sides. “You got a haircut, it looks so good!”

In the short time he had known her, Soul had come to realize that Maka had little concern for personal space. More surprising, he didn’t hate it, which was odd for someone like him who preferred to keep a five foot barrier -- both emotionally and physically -- between him and other people at all times. It wasn’t like Maka was trying to shove her hands down his pants like some hormonal fangirl but he was hyper aware of how close she would get to him, how easily she could drop a hand on his shoulder, or grab his hand to pull him somewhere.

Soul decided that, like most everything else in his life that he was too lazy to psychologically unpack, he would just repress these less than platonic feelings for the foreseeable future.

“Stop that, you’re messing it up,” he complained, trying to save face. _Yes, touch me more_ could only lead to awkwardness, so Soul batted her hands away even if it had felt heavenly. “Also, you need a shower. You smell.”

Maka huffed, cheeks round and chipmunk-esque with indignation. “Rude! I was just about to go shower and change but I wanted to say hi first. Now you’re going to have to wait even longer.”

She turned tail and stomped off towards the locker room. Maybe that was a little mean, Soul realized, but he panicked and his default defense was snark. Maka had made it perfectly clear that this relationship was strictly business and Soul wasn’t about to fuck up everything they had worked for because he was going through late-late-late puberty and was finally noticing -- _really_ noticing -- girls.

Or, really, one girl in particular.

Besides, Soul had already learned the consequences of mixing business and pleasure. It was a mistake that he wasn’t willing to repeat, no matter how cute Maka was. Their job came first; fucking up yet another potential relationship would have to wait.

When Maka returned some fifteen minutes later clean and damp, Soul gifted her with a bottle of water. Even though it had Black*Star’s face plastered all over it, the peace offering had earned him her forgiveness. They walked out of the gym together and headed to Soul’s apartment for another attempt at song writing and, more importantly, the next episode of _Spirit Rider._ Soul had apparently fallen prey to a slightly overdone storyline with extremely likable characters. He blamed Maka, who only grinned and welcomed him to fan hell.

“-- I mean, it’s obvious that Rider only acts like such an asshole to cover up all of his insecurities, you know?” Soul threw out casually. He knew his analysis was on point; he might have stayed up until three am scrolling Tumblr to see what other fans thought. “And they make a good team because he’s not sure of who he is, but he’s sure of the things he does and Mika is sure of who she is, but not always sure of the things she does --”

Maka abruptly stopped and yanked Soul down by his shirt. He hunched over, looking around wildly. “What the hell, Maka? What’s wrong?”

“I-- I thought I saw someone I knew.” The hand digging into his arm was shaking and her face went deathly white. She ground her words out through a clenched jaw. “Ugh.”

Soul slowly straightened and looked around, body tense in case he had to attack or defend which was a ridiculous thought because Maka was undoubtedly stronger than he was. They were in front of a bookstore and the streets were fairly empty for a Tuesday afternoon in the summer. Unless Maka had beef with a four year old eating ice cream on the corner, Soul had no idea who she was referring to. “Who?”

She made a noise at the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl and tugged him, hand still on his arm, to keep walking. “Him,” was all Maka said, nodding towards the cardboard cutout of Noah Brubeck, author of _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat,_ advertising his book signing event on Saturday.

“Wait, wait. Maka. Hold on.” He tugged her to walk at a more reasonable pace because he was out of shape and starting to get out of breath from the power jogging. Maka slowed and let go of the death grip she had on his arm. “What’s up?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, voice tight and high.

“Okay.”

“O-okay?” Maka blinked up at him.

“Yeah. Everyone’s got things they don’t want to talk about.” Soul stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans to avoid the temptation of holding her hand. He knew someone as prideful as Maka wouldn’t want his pity or sympathy and he understood -- too well -- wanting to keep insecurities and secrets close. Soul was curious what her deal was with an author fifteen years her senior but he could wait for answers. “It’s cool.”

Maka gave him the tiniest of smiles. “You’re a nice guy, aren’t you.”

“Don’t go spreading that around,” he said as they started up their walk again, “I’ve got a rep to protect. I was the bad boy of 2Kool4Skool, you know.”

She choked out a laugh and slid her arm through his and Soul didn’t mind one bit.

* * *

_X-Calibur. 7:30pm. Be there wearing the clothes I left you in your apartment. And stop pouting, you big baby, one night out won’t kill you._

Soul was in the middle of texting Wes a quick “eat a dick” when Maka smacked his shoulder lightly. She informed him that although they were not club people by any means (understatement of the century, Soul thought), they would be graciously accepting Wes’ invitation. _One Night in California_ was a huge anniversary event for the club and there were going to be gossip bloggers and paparazzi by the dozen. Wes insisted that they needed to be seen together in public and if they were going to do this fake dating thing, they were going to do it right.

Maka Albarn half-assed nothing, which was both frustrating and incredibly hot.

“Come oooon,” Soul whined. He hoped that he would be able to appeal to her nerdy and introverted side. He was not too proud to beg. “Let’s just stay home and watch _Spirit Rider_ and eat pizza _._ Wes could probably photoshop our faces onto randoms at the club.”

Maka threw the bag of clothes that had mysteriously been left on the couch at him. How in the hell did Wes keep getting in? Soul never made him a key. _Probably seduced the doorman, that asshole,_ Soul thought. “No way. We’re going. Get dressed.”

Soul opened the bag, pulled out a pair of pants, and scowled. “I am _not_ wearing studded leather pants. What’d you get?”

She held up a sparkly scrap of material that was more hole than dress. “Uh. This monstrosity. I don’t even want to know where your brother got this from.”

“From his own closet, probably.”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing, throwing the clothes aside. “Might as well go as we are,” Soul sighed. “We’re staying for one hour and I’m not dancing.”

“Killjoy.” She looked down at herself, adjusting her modest skirt and brushing off her thin sleeveless top. Not exactly clubwear but it would have to do unless she wanted to dress like a Spice Girl. “I have some lipstick in my bag but I’m sort of hopeless at it.”

Soul shrugged. “You look fine without it.”

“ _Fine_? Gee, thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Could you help me with my makeup? I’m sure you have some experience. And you’ve got those steady musician hands,” Maka teased.

“I don’t --”

“ _Please_?” Maka’s eyes were wide, lips pouting cutely. She dug into her purse and handed him the tube of lipstick before he could refuse. “Could you please just try?”

He squinted at the lipstick in his palm. Soul was half tempted just to smear it all over her mouth and laugh, because he was embarrassed and intrigued at the prospect of getting this close to Maka without repercussion. Was she messing with him? She couldn’t be that oblivious to his budding crush. “Don’t blame me if it looks terrible.”

“Mmm.”

Soul leaned in close, resting his free hand on her shoulder. She smelled like crisp, clean, sensible dollar store soap and the ends of her long, soft hair tickled the back of his hand. He could feel the sharp ridges of her collarbone under his thumb and the heat of her skin and Soul took a moment to gather his wits. He was a man on a mission and if the Lord was testing him in the form of lipstick application, he was going to pass, damn it.

Art by [Krib](http://kribart.tumblr.com/)!

He started with her upper lip, carefully tracing the deep V of her cupid’s bow. Filling the rest in carefully, Soul moved down to her bottom lip, which was comically pouted, he supposed, to make his job easier. So far so good, he thought with satisfaction. He had managed to stay in the lines and _not_ make her look like a circus reject. The creamy lipstick went on smoothly and Soul took his sweet time making sure that everything was even and admiring her face.

“Just -- you know.” He pressed his own lips together, miming what he needed her to do. Maka immediately responded and then puckered comically. “Hold on, I just need to --”

Later, this would be remembered as the Beginning of the End.

The night that Soul Evans fucked up royally and there was no turning back.

Soul moved his thumb to the crease of her mouth, the little corner between top and bottom, intending to innocently clean up any lipstick that had escaped his carefully drawn lines. Her eyes fluttered shut and Soul forced air through his lungs, counting the freckles on the bridge of her nose to get a grip on himself. The moment his fingertip touched her bottom lip, soft and smooth and slick with lipstick, his heart thudded uncomfortably. Soul was so glad that Maka’s eyes were closed because he could feel a violent blush travel from his ears to his neck.

The next thought he had was traitorous, unbidden: _What would it feel like to ruin his careful handiwork with his fingers, his mouth_?

“Good?” Maka asked, opening her eyes.

“Yeah. You’re good.” 

She squeezed his arm in thanks before making long strides to the doorway to slide her ridiculously heavy boots on.

Soul rubbed his fingers together absently, still warm from her lips and oily from the lipstick residue.

 _Just business,_ he reminded himself for the millionth time. _Just business._

* * *

Soul could only describe X-Calibur as Medieval Times meets a strip club.

Coats of arms and velvet scrolls lined the wall. There were elaborate weapons and armor and the place might have looked respectable if it weren’t for the beautiful men in cages on each of the round tables. They were all wearing barely there chainmail booty shorts and thongs, grinding happily to the music being spun by ex-band member and good friend, Kilik Rung.

“I want to go home,” Soul said immediately.

“We just got here!” Maka exclaimed. “By the way, what’s the etiquette? Should I tip this guy dancing next to us? Everyone has to earn a living.” Without waiting for an answer,  Maka turned to the man in the cage. “Excuse me. Can you break a $20?”

Soul rubbed his temples. The pounding music and throngs of people weren’t doing anything for his anxiety and general distaste for socializing. After the man in the cage kindly broke Maka’s $20, he thanked her for the tip and Maka pulled Soul away so they could sit on some velvet couches in the corner.

“It’s a little quieter over here,” Maka said, smooshing against him in the too small chair. “Augh, hold on.” She threw her long legs over his lap and settled comfortably. “There, much better.”

Maka Albarn’s legs were the danger zone and Soul knew that he needed to abort immediately for fear of doing something stupid like running his fingers along smooth, muscular calves and thighs. He distracted himself by flagging down a wandering waiter and ordering milkshakes, since this was a dry club. It would have been preferable to drown his troubles in some gin but since that wasn’t an option, sugar would just have to do.

“I wrote some more lyrics. Wanna see?” Maka asked. She opened her cellphone and leaned closer to him. “Here, read.”

“ _We spent just two months in reverie, now you’ll only be part of Calgary,_ ” Soul read. “What? What happened in Calgary?”

Maka groaned. “What? Stupid autocorrect! That should be _my memory,_ not Calgary,” she giggled. “Why would they be in Canada?”

“I don’t know, you’re the lyricist. Poutine? Hockey? Socialized health care?”

“Oh my God,” a new voice said and Maka and Soul looked up from the cellphone to find Wes standing in front of them, looking positively aghast. “You have got to be kidding me. You two are impossible. You’re sitting in a club and working on a _song_? And what happened to the clothes I left for you?”

Soul crumbled up a napkin and threw it at Wes. “In the garbage, where they belong.”

Wes rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I see I’m going to have to take more drastic measures. If I can’t get scandalous photos of you two dancing on tables in leather pants, we’re going to need something else.” He motioned for the two of them to move closer together. “Kiss.”

“ _What?!_ ” Maka and Soul gasped, perfectly in unison.

“You heard me. Kiss. And make it look believable for goodness sake,” Wes said. “Let’s go, I don’t have all night. Do you know how many people in here I need to avoid?” The bartender, a chatty man with silver hair who kept talking over the customers, leered at Wes. Wes looked away quickly. “I’m going right into the line of fire for you two.”

“Well _maybe_ if you didn’t sleep with anything with a pulse --”

Maka turned to Soul. “Fine. Let’s do it. It’s just one kiss. One picture, right?”

Wes nodded a bit too eagerly for Soul’s liking. “Yes, just one. One picture and then you can go home.”

Soul’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t ready for this. _He was never going to be ready for this_. And it wasn’t because he was disagreeable to the thought of kissing her-- just the opposite. Soul had probably wanted to kiss her since the moment she threatened to kidnap someone and hold him hostage so she could win a cooking show. Soul felt guilty; he couldn’t help but feel like he was doing something underhanded by agreeing to this.

But if Maka was agreeing...

“Just one,” he agreed begrudgingly. Soul tossed her legs off of his lap, for reasons -- most of them having to do with the potential for accidental, embarrassing erections and his traitorous penis that had a mind of its own. “No tongue.”

“Ew,” Maka slapped his arm lightly, grinning. “Don’t be gross. Just shut up and kiss me.”

 _Jesus H. Christ._ Soul leaned in and gave Maka the quickest, most chaste peck that he could muster. He tried not to concentrate on how soft her lips were on his, definitely tried not to think about the shot of pleasure that hit him right in the gut at the mere contact.

“Oh, come on. I kiss my grandmother with more passion than that,” Wes complained.

Soul scowled. “Leave Bubbe alone, you perv.”

Wes held up his cellphone, intent on getting his perfect picture. “Once more, this time with feeling, Solomon.”

“Oh for frick’s sake!” Maka grabbed Soul by the shirt and pulled him to her, her mouth clumsily landing on his. He was frozen, unsure where to put his hands and his brain going a million miles a minute. There was only static and airplane noises and Soul hadn’t realized that she released him until she was reaching over to wipe her lipstick off his mouth.

Wes grinned. “Now _this_ I can work with.”

* * *

“You really didn’t have to walk me home,” Maka said, amused. “Now you’re going to have to take the train all the back to your place.”

The long walk from the club to her apartment gave Soul time to contemplate all that had happened. He prided himself on being cool and collected but the kiss, fake as it was, had shaken him. She had no trouble laying one on him, in public, _in front of his brother_. Could it be that Maka actually had feelings for him? She didn’t seem like the kind of girl who just went around kissing strange men for the hell of it, even if it was for the sake of her career.

And if she did have feelings for him, _what was he supposed to do about it?_

Soul needed to seriously weigh the pros and cons of a foray into a romantic-type relationship with Maka.

Pros: She was adorable, smart, kind, charming, and didn’t take shit. Good writer and partner, future collaborations could happen. Legs were otherworldly in a short skirt. Had good taste in television shows. Couldn’t cook but was great at ordering out.

Cons: He would probably-- no, most _definitely--_ fuck this up and ruin a great friendship and business partnership.

Soul needed to at least have the decency to wait until they finished Kim’s song to make an idiot out of himself. Maka wouldn’t rest until it was done and he didn’t want to make things awkward by being a creeper. He would just need to have some self control, take a few cold showers, and pretend that he didn’t have any less than pure intentions towards her. Easy.

“Soul, I think we need to practice kissing.”

Or maybe not so easy.

“ _What._ ”

Maka leaned back against the door of her apartment building. She stared up at him through heavy lashes and Soul instinctively took a step forward to get closer. His mind screamed NO, YOU IDIOT but his body was saying FUCK YES, YOU LOSER, GET IN THERE. “Wes said it looked awkward. If people are going to believe we’re actually dating it has to look natural, doesn’t it?”

“W-who cares what Wes says?” Soul choked out. “He’s a moron.”

“Was it really that bad?” Soul’s eyes were immediately drawn to Maka’s mouth, now free of lipstick, bottom lip slightly jutted out into the tiniest of pouts. It was unfairly cute and Soul felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck that had nothing to do with the New York City humidity and everything to do with Maka Albarn seducing him outside of her apartment building.

The Lord was testing him and he was headed straight for summer school. “... no, it wasn’t bad.”

“Then come here.”

Soul was weak. There was no way he could resist her with the way she was looking at him, how good her messy hair smelled, the sound of her voice quietly commanding him to _come here_. The startling realization that he had never been this excited for a kiss in his life was his undoing. All reason and logic and good intentions had flown completely out the window. All he could think about was _her_ and the nauseating butterflies in his stomach and the rush of blood thumping in his ears.

He let her lead; however far she wanted to take it, Soul would follow willingly. Maka cupped his face with calloused fingertips, tugging him to her level. He gave in to temptation and rested his hands lightly on her waist, barely breathing for fear of doing something wrong and ruining the moment. This was not the aggressive kissing of confident models and actresses shoving their tongues down his throat for a photo op. This was something slightly more unsure, but achingly earnest.

"Are you okay?" she whispered against his mouth and Soul appreciated her concern but had no desire to stop the barrage of soft, chaste smooches punctuating every breath she took. He squeezed her waist in a silent affirmative of his _okay-ness_ and his unwillingness to part from her.

It occurred to him sometime between kisses four and five that this was _not_ practice, no matter how much he tried to convinced himself, and this was entirely, painstakingly real. And Soul was okay with that -- but was she?

"Mmm... Maka," he breathed, pulling away slightly. "... meet my parents on Friday?"

She looked taken aback and rightly so. "Huh?"

That... was so not what he wanted to say. Soul wished there was a backspace button for talking because once again, he really needed to just delete himself immediately. Time for damage control. "My mom heard about the dating thing and she wants to meet you. She's going to nag me until the end of time if we don't give in."

"That's fine, I guess?"

Moment completely gone, Soul fumbled for the right thing to say. "It'll be just as uh, _good friends_. So. No pressure," he tacked on quickly. "You'll be doing me a huge favor."

Maka pursed her lips. "Right. As good friends. I understand. So, Friday, then? Just text me the details and what to wear. I'm assuming I shouldn't show up in Wes' sparkle nightmare. Thanks for walking me home. Night."

She turned and opened her door, shutting it gently behind her, leaving Soul alone with his many regrets.

Shitshitshit _fuck his life_. This particular self sabotage had happened in record time, even for a screw up like him. He wasn't sure if he could _ever_ rebound from the "good friends" kiss of death. Goodbye makeouts with Maka, hello nights alone replaying his idiocy over and over again in his mind.

Soul groaned. "You suck," he whispered to himself. "And this is why you're gonna die alone."


	4. Got The Feelin'

Maka stood in front of her closet for an embarrassingly long time debating appropriate attire for a Friday night dinner with her fake boyfriend (and real crush’s) family. From what she had gleaned from Soul’s complaints and Wes’ general avoidance of family events, their mother was extremely opinionated and judgmental, which meant that Maka had to bring her A-game. Short skirts and ratty jeans were thrown aside in favor of her work appropriate, “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard but please like me” dresses.

She didn’t want to embarrass herself, even if she and Soul were just _good friends._

Grumpy at remembering the night on her doorstep where their kiss was interrupted by Soul’s declaration of their friendship, Maka tore a floral sundress off of its hanger and threw it over her head. She hoped that she looked so good that Soul regretted ever uttering the _f_ word to her. Not, Maka thought, that she didn’t treasure his friendship, because she did -- a lot. But if all he needed was friendship, then he needed to stop giving her mixed signals in the form of longing glances, hair tugs, and all of the flirting he did when he thought no one else was looking.

Maka didn’t think Soul was the kind of guy to play around with a girl, but then again, she had been wrong before. She hoped that her faith in him wasn’t misplaced and that he was just incredibly inept at dealing with women. Maybe she hadn’t been clear enough in her intentions? Maka thought that asking him to help her with her lipstick and “practice smooching” had been dead giveaways to her feelings. She would just have to be straight with him and assure him that no matter what happened, Maka was happy to have his friendship and nothing would get in the way of finishing Kim’s song.

She was a big girl and had no desire to pursue someone who wasn’t interested; that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. Maka could deal with disappointment and rejection, even if she hadn’t felt like this about another person maybe _ever_.

 _I can always use it as inspiration for my next book,_ Maka thought wryly as she slid on a pair of pretty, sensible sandals. _People just love reading about pathetic unrequited love and pining._

Soul picked her up at exactly five and Maka was surprised to see him in an actual car and not on his beloved motorcycle. She wasn’t a big fan of bikes before riding on one, but had found that it was thrilling and dangerous and Maka now rode behind him every chance she got. Soul had laughed at her adrenaline addiction, called her a straight up junkie, but promised that if she wanted to learn, he could teach her to drive. Part of her really wanted to take him up on the offer, but another part of her, the part of her she would rather die than acknowledge, wanted an excuse to keep riding with him.

“No bike? I can’t believe you’re cheating on your baby with another machine,” Maka teased.

“For one thing, I have zero desire to get on the highway on a Friday evening on a motorcycle with you behind me. Your passenger road rage will get us killed,” he said dryly. Maka hmphed but didn’t argue; she was a bit of a speed demon and a shit talker behind the wheel, but what New Yorker wasn’t? “Also, I’d really like to avoid all the lectures I can tonight from my mom.”

Maka looked sympathetic as she climbed into the passenger seat. She loved his stupid orange bike but she was grateful for the air conditioning of the car blasting in her face. It would keep her eyeliner from melting off. “Not a fan of motorcycles?”

He laughed and reached over to help her with her twisted seatbelt. “She’s not a fan of most things I do. You look nice, by the way.”

She tried not to grin, but caught his slight blush and failed miserably. It was hard to be annoyed with him when he was so earnest. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure what to wear. I hope it’s okay.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable in is fine.” Soul shrugged. “Literally anything is better than that time Wes went through a Michael Jackson phase in high school and wore a silver glove everywhere. It made Passover really awkward.”

Maka shrieked and lightly slapped him in the stomach. “You’re such a liar, he did _not_! … did he?” Wes walked to the beat of his own drum, so anything was possible.

“I’m sure my mother has pictures somewhere. You’ll see and then you’ll be sorry for doubting me.”

She rested her head against the window and let herself relax as they drove to his parents’ house. Maka had feared that things would be awkward between them after that night at X-Calibur, but Soul was still being Soul -- sarcastic, snarky, honest Soul. Conversation flowed between them so easily and everything was so comfortable, Maka wondered if it was a mistake to try and change things.

If it ain’t broke, why fix it, right? 

But Maka was a natural born and bred overachiever and hell, if she was going to screw it up, she might as well go down in a blaze of glory, right? She didn’t like to live with regrets. Action first, regret deeply and eat an entire pint of ice cream later.

While she mulled over just how she was going to confess to him (come on, shojo manga and romance novels, _don’t fail her now_ ), Soul gently placed his hand over hers. He drove with his left hand and stared directly ahead, seemingly paying very careful attention to the rules of the road. Maka could feel his palm sweating slightly and there was an almost imperceptible tremble as his fingers twitched.

She smiled and took his hand more fully into hers, lacing their fingers together tightly. Soul continued to stare ahead but squeezed her hand lightly in gratitude. There were no cameras, no Wes, no song, no pressure. Just two people in a car, listening to Journey’s _Separate Ways_ , and enjoying each other’s company.

And that was enough for Maka.

(For now.)

* * *

Soul’s parents lived in a beautiful mansion in Long Island that managed to look classy despite its size. It wasn’t one of those shoddily built McMansions that looked identical to the other McMansions on the block but an actual, genuine, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous mansion. Britney Spears mansion. A mansion-mansion. Maka tried not to gape at the beautiful expanse of lawn, the high tech security system, and fountain in the front that looked like it had been built by Michelangelo himself.

“Wow…” Maka said as they climbed the steps to the front door. “This house is just _wow._ ”

“I guess.” Soul sounded less than enthused, but then again, he always seemed the type to choke on the silver spoon that had been firmly implanted in his mouth from birth.

She shifted and smoothed down the floaty, ruffled skirt of her dress. “I’m a little nervous. I’ve never gone to meet someone’s parents like this before.”

Soul arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Never?”

“Shut up,” Maka groused. “No judgments. I didn’t date much, okay?”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He shrugged. “You’re not the type who wastes time. It’s cool.”

Maka didn’t know if it was _cool,_ so much as _having zero romantic and/or sexual interest in men or women or anyone for most of her life_. But if Soul wanted to believe that she was just extremely selective, that was fine. It would probably do wonders for his ego. “Do you think your mom will like me?”

He rang the doorbell. “What’s not to like?”

Her heart skipped a beat and she distracted herself by fussing with the heavy bag full of cake and cookies from the Kosher bakery down the block that they had brought as a peace offering. Soul thought it was overkill; Maka was not above buying someone’s love, even if this relationship _was_ a sham. She might not have been rich, but Maka had manners and understood propriety.

And maybe she really, really, _really_ wanted his parents to like her. Just a little.

The front door opened and the biggest, fluffiest, whitest dog that Maka had ever seen galloped out and launched itself at Soul. He stumbled back, nearly dropping the bottle of wine he was holding. Maka immediately reached out to grab the bottle, just in case it slipped from Soul’s grasp. The dog was unaffected; he took to standing on his hind legs and licking Soul’s face relentlessly.

“Okay, okay, down, girl! Down, Billie. Come on,” he groaned but gave in, rubbing the dog’s adorably pointed ears and face. “I missed you, too, okay?”

Maka reached out her hand to let the dog smell her hand. “Watch out, you’re gonna --” Soul’s warning was not fast enough and Maka found herself on the receiving end of a very curious dog’s tongue. “You’re gonna get white dog hair all over you,” Soul sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Billie?” Maka asked, not particularly concerned about getting fur all over her.

Soul grimaced. “Remember that Michael Jackson phase I told you that Wes went through in high school? Meet Billie Jean Evans. It’s too embarrassing, though, so I just pretend that she’s named after Billie Holiday -- ack, down girl!” He lightly tugged on Billie’s collar so she would stop her smooch attack on Maka’s face. “I haven’t been home in a while, so she’s overexcited.”

“I’ll say you haven’t been home for a while,” a stern voice said from inside the house. The voice was coming from a tall, slender woman with platinum blond hair so light that it looked white and the most perfect complexion Maka had ever seen in her life. It looked like the finest imported porcelain, and though Maka knew logically that Soul’s mother was in her sixties, her face didn’t have one wrinkle. “It’s been at least six months, Soul.”

Soul’s expression was one of pure suffering. “I know, Mom. I’ve been busy, I told you.” He nudged his dog inside and motioned for Maka to follow. “This is Maka Albarn. Maka, my mother, Annie Evans.”

Maka stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Evans. Thank you for the dinner invitation.”

The stern face immediately bloomed into a smile. She ignored the hand and pulled Maka in for a hug. “You can call me Annie. No need for formalities here.”

The Van Gogh painting in the hallway said otherwise but Maka just kept smiling, awkwardly hugging the older woman back. “Okay, Annie. Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you, dear,” Annie trilled. She turned suddenly and screamed: “DONNY, COME IN HERE AND SAY HELLO TO YOUR SON AND HIS GIRLFRIEND!”

Soul’s father -- a shorter, stout man with a bushy blond beard and kind blue eyes -- immediately appeared down the hall. Maka was impressed at how well trained the men of Soul’s family were. Annie was a strong woman and Maka respected that.

Donny Evans hugged Soul briefly and shook Maka’s hand warmly between both of his. They seemed like very nice people, Maka thought. She didn’t really understand why Soul was so distant from them. She had done a little recon on the Evanses -- Annie was a retired opera singer and Donny was a conductor. They had come from musician stock and bred more musicians. Maybe the pressure was too much for Soul? “Nice to meet you, Maka. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Like what?” Soul asked immediately, shoulders tensing. “I hope you’re not reading those trashy papers, Dad. Wes has literally had a hand in every piece of junk written about us.”

“You know your brother can’t help himself,” Donny said to Soul. “Just humor him. That’s what we do.”

“I _heard_ that.” Wes stuck his head out from the kitchen. “By the way, everyone is waiting for you two. They want to get started. Uncle Moshe is complaining about his low blood sugar.”

Maka blinked. “Everyone…?”

Her mouth fell open as Soul’s mother pushed the two of them into the dining room where no less than twenty people were seated around the table. There was also a smaller table next to it filled with kids and teenagers, most of them playing on their cell phones or handheld game systems. She was proud of herself for stifling the gasp that threatened to spill out of her mouth. Soul had invited her to a quiet family Shabbis, not a _freaken thirty person formal dinner._

She robotically greeted everyone, accepting kisses from Soul’s adorable grandmother who everyone called Bubbe and hugs from various aunts and cousins. The questions were non-stop: Did they really meet on a cooking show? Who fell for who first? When were they getting married? How many kids did they want to have? The questions got increasingly more personal and ridiculous, as Maka and Soul had only been “dating” for a month, tops.

Maka was overwhelmed and underprepared. Luckily, Annie called for dinner quickly and Maka and Soul had a moment of peace.

But just a moment.

“Soul,” Maka whispered through clenched teeth. “Explanation, please.”

He looked at her helplessly.

“You said,” Maka hissed, “I would just be meeting your parents, _not the entire congregation of Beth Israel Synagogue!_ ”

“I’m sorry!” Soul whispered back. “I had no idea. Really. Just, augh. Fucking hell,” he groaned too loudly.

Annie’s glare was so sharp that Soul looked like he had taken a physical blow. “Solomon, absolutely no cursing or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap, don’t think I won’t!”

He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry,” Soul said again. “Just go with it? Please? I’ll owe you one.”

“Fine,” Maka agreed. “But you owe me. Big time.”

“There’s no more seats here,” Wes said helpfully when Maka and Soul looked around for a place to sit. “Guess you two will have to sit at the kiddie table.”

Soul looked to Annie pleadingly. “Mom.”

Annie shrugged. “It’s just for dinner, Soul. You two will have more fun with the younger people. We’ll talk after dinner.”

Maka’s glare was nothing to sneeze at, either. Soul flinched under her stare and unsuccessfully avoided her eyes.  “You owe me _so_ much,” she said as she sat down next to one of his cousins. “So. Much.”

The cousin to her right had long, black, stringy hair, a septum piercing, and was donning a ratty Metallica shirt. He looked up from his pink Nintendo DS and stared right at Maka. She liked his eyeliner; maybe he could give her some tips. “What’re you in for?”

“Just guilty by association.” She jerked her head towards Soul, who had the decency to look very embarrassed about the whole situation. “You?”

“Related, unfortunately.”

Maka leaned back in her chair. “That’s rough. I’m Maka.”

He nodded at her. “Dave.”

“Any tips on making it through this dinner?” Maka asked, desperate. Soul was no help -- he was too busy trying to dodge flying Barbie accessories and questions about him and Maka.

“Say everything is delicious, laugh at all of Uncle Sid’s jokes, and do _not_ engage Uncle Joe in political talk.” David grimaced and nodded towards a tall, burly man with a kind face and a very questionable fashion sense (a suit top with shorts and sandals -- Maka was no fashionista but she knew this was not even the slightly bit _en vogue_ ). “He’s super liberal but Grandpa is a steadfast Republican. Things get ugly _fast._ ”

Maka got comfortable and watched Dave harvest crops and try to woo a husband in his farming game.

This was going to be the longest dinner of her _life._

* * *

Dinner  _was_ delicious -- she made sure to compliment Soul’s mother at every turn and the woman was infinitely pleased -- and Maka managed to avoid most questions by shoving food in her mouth and nodding politely. The real challenge came after dinner when everyone was gathered in the living room to eat dessert and talk, aka, interrogate Maka and Soul. One of Soul’s uncles was inquiring as to whether she was going to convert to Judaism when an unexpected guest showed up.

Dr. Franken Stein and his wife, Marie, along with their three kids, wandered into the living room. Marie apologized for missing dinner, citing Stein’s work as a surgeon as the reason why they were late. Stein lit a cigarette (“Put that out this instant, Frank!” Soul’s mother shrieked) and commented that Marie had actually gotten lost three times on the expressway, which was the real reason why they missed dinner. She stepped on his foot with a heeled boot but he only grinned.

“Dr. Stein?” Maka asked. “Marie? What are you guys doing here?”

“How do you know my uncle and aunt?” Soul asked, equally as confused.

“Dr. Stein is a friend of my dad’s. They were college roommates. He’s your _uncle_?”

“Unfortunately,” Soul replied.

Marie swept Maka up in a hug, lifting her off the ground as Stein finally put his cigarette out in one of Annie’s expensive ceramic mugs. “Maka! I haven’t seen you in so long, you’ve gotten so tall! I was so excited when I heard about you and Soul! I watched _The Hunger Games_ and you two were just so cute.”

Soul snorted. “Yeah, it was adorable how she almost lit me on fire.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have tainted my chicken, _honey_ ,” Maka said sweetly.

“Look at them, already fighting like a married couple!” Aunt Sylvie or Beth or Greta crooned.

Maka silently prayed for a distraction. Any distraction at all.

Her prayers were answered -- sort of -- half an hour later when the doorbell rang again.

Soul and Maka eyed each other wearily. “Do you have any more uncles I should know about?” she asked tiredly.

“Funny. No, this is the entire clan, as far as I know,” Soul said.

“As far as you know,” Maka groaned.

“MAKAAAAAA!” Spirit Albarn cried, door flying open in the wake of his very dramatic entrance. He was sweating and his long red hair was sticking to his face. Thankfully, he had left his little entourage of women at home. “Hello, Annie, thank you for the last minute invitation,” he said charmingly, handing Soul’s mother a bouquet of flowers. “Stein had texted me about this little gathering and I was in the neighborhood --”

Marie gave Stein a look that screamed _You’re on the couch tonight_ and Maka slammed her hand down on a coffee table. “You were at a book signing in Queens, you liar!”

“-- and I haven’t gotten a chance to meet Soul yet, so I came by!”

Soul dutifully handed Maka a glass of wine. “Here. You need this.”

Maka slid the entire bottle closer to her. No, she needed _this._

The whole situation was so surreal that Maka couldn’t believe this was real life and not some stress-induced delusion. Her father was galavanting around the continental US doing book signings and sleeping with anything with breasts and a pulse; he couldn’t be bothered to come say hi or take her out to dinner but somehow he magically found enough time to come and meet Soul’s family? What the hell? Maka was pissed and vengeful and now she had a glass of wine (and counting) in her system.

She put her arms around Soul’s waist, resting her head on his chest. He tensed for a moment but then casually slung his arm around her. “Papa, I’m actually really glad you’re here. I’ve wanted you to meet Soul for a while.”

Spirit turned away from flirting with one of Soul’s young aunts and gasped. “Y-you have?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever felt this way about a guy,” Maka said, all adoration and smiles. “We’ve only known each other a short time but I just know he’s the one.”

“Y-you do?” Spirit squeaked.

Maka squeezed Soul. “Isn’t that right, _baby_?”

“Not in front of your Dad, Maka. It’s embarrassing,” Soul said but put his other arm around her. “But it’s a good thing he’s here, since we were just discussing your conversion. You did say you wanted to raise the kids Jewish, didn’t you?”

She nodded fervently. “Of course.”

“The _kids_?!” Spirit wobbled. Stein looked positively thrilled, like this was the best entertainment he had seen all year. Soul’s relatives were too busy trying to figure out how to hook up the Wii to play some karaoke game to notice the shenanigans going on behind them, and for that Maka was eternally grateful. “B-but, Maka!”

Maka reached up to run her hands over Soul’s face. She let herself enjoy the roughness of his “I’m too lazy to shave” scruff for a few seconds. “Papa, I _really_ hope you can start to see Soul like a son.”

Soul’s eyebrow twitched and Maka knew it was taking every ounce of his self control not to start laughing. “Can I call you ‘Dad’?”

“ _NO YOU CAN’T CALL ME DAD_!”

Maka buried her face in Soul’s neck to stifle her giggles. “That’s not very nice,” Marie piped up helpfully, clearly enjoying Spirit’s suffering as much as her husband and literally everyone else in the room. “They’re practically America’s Sweethearts. Not very good for publicity, Spirit. The internet won’t like that.”

Spirit quickly whipped out his cellphone, no doubt taking to Twitter to talk about how happy he was for his baby girl and her new boyfriend. Marie ducked under his arm to help, instructing him to cover up his obvious lies with heart emojis and smiley faces. Half of Soul’s relatives had heard the interaction and were clamoring for answers, taking bets on baby names, and doing shots in their honor. Amidst the chaos and shouts of _Mazal Tov_ , Maka and Soul slipped out the backdoor.

“I think we’re even now,” Maka said once they were alone on the back porch. “We definitely just took ten years off of my dad’s life. _Can I call you Dad?_ ” Maka laughed. “You know your relatives are never going to let this go. Wes, especially. I’m sure some trashy blog site will get sudden word of a ‘potential pregnancy’ tomorrow.”

Soul shrugged. “Yeah, but whatever. I owed you for this whole shitshow. No one should be forced to endure my family for this long. Besides, the look on your old man’s face was worth it.”

Now was the perfect chance for Maka to make her feelings clear. To tell Soul that she had feelings for him that went beyond mere partnership. To ask how he felt about her. To find out exactly how _good_ of friends they were and was he interested in upgrading that to something a bit more romantic in nature?  All she had to do was open her mouth and --

Unfortunately, Maka had opened her mouth just as Soul had swooped in for a sudden kiss. She was happy that they were on the same wavelength, but their teeth smashed against each other painfully and Maka was pretty sure her lip was bleeding.

Soul jumped back like he had been electrocuted, completely horrified at his ineptitude. “You’re -- oh shit, your lip is bleeding,” he said and reached up to wipe her mouth with the back of his hand. “These fucking teeth, I swear to God --”

“Soul,” Maka said calmly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Twitter was right. I’m an orthodontist’s nightmare and I suck,” he sighed.

“Shhhh. Don’t say that. Twitter is never right.” She tugged him to her, arms around his neck. “Didn’t I say I thought you teeth were cute?”

Soul grumbled but let himself be pulled to her, not offering up a shred of resistance. “You said _kind of cute_.”

“Don’t argue semantics with a writer, Soul Evans.”

She tilted her head up and closed her eyes, waiting for him to make up for his previous fumble. Soul did not disappoint twice; he was a fast learner. They finally kissed, sweet but passionate and full of that aching, unresolved longing that had been driving Maka up the wall since that night at the club. It felt good to kiss Soul, so unlike all of her previous kisses with men who meant very little to her. She felt something incommunicable for her partner, something warm and safe and good, but nothing in the entire English language could properly describe the storm of emotions inside her.

Maka prided herself on being good with words, but maybe none were needed in that moment.

“ _This_ is what I like to see,” a voice from behind them said. Wes stood there, cellphone in hand, presumably taking rapid fire pictures of them. “I see someone’s been practicing. Now smile for TMZ, kids.”

Soul scowled and flipped him off, calling him a few choice words, some of which Maka had never even heard before.

Maka only smirked. “Just be sure to text, email, and fax a copy of that to my dad, okay?”

* * *

“I’m kind of nervous,” Maka blurted out as she and Soul walked into an impressive looking recording studio. She had only ever seen  _Death Records_ on those  _Behind the Music_ specials that MTV liked to play at ungodly hours. Maka would be lying if she said she wasn’t slightly intimidated because she was  _this close_ to peeing her pants. “What if Kim absolutely hates what we have so far?”

Soul waved to the security guard and bypassed the security at the front desk completely. There were choruses of _Good morning, Mr. Evans,_ and for the first time in a while, Maka realized that Soul was really _someone_. Times like these reminded her that Soul was rich and famous and Maka was neither of those things. “She’s not going to hate it. It has everything a hit song needs.”

Maka swallowed audibly. Her book sales had been abysmal before Soul swooped in and bought five thousand copies, and she couldn’t help but think that maybe she really wasn’t cut out for writing. She could just imagine the disappointed look on her mostly absent mother’s face -- when Maka switched from pre-law to English her junior year of college and her mother had only shaken her head, scoffed, and told her to enjoy being a poor _teacher_.

It shouldn’t matter what her mother thought of her. She hadn’t heard from her in years, not since she and Spirit divorced and she promptly ran off with some Swedish yoga instructor she met on a business trip. Maka was an adult. She didn’t need her mother’s approval. She didn’t need anyone’s approval.

Still, a bead of sweat made its way down the back of Maka’s neck. “My throat is closing up.”

“No, it’s not,” Soul said calmly.

“Anaphylaxis,” she choked out, “stab me with an epipen.”

He shook his head, grinning. “And you say I’m a drama queen. C’mon. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home.”

They walked -- well, Soul walked and Maka dragged her feet along -- into a beautiful glass elevator. He pressed the button for the 30th floor before Maka could change her mind and jump through the glass back to the street. Taking a few deep breaths, she closed her eyes to get her bearings. Maka only opened them again when she felt Soul take her hands.

“Seriously, calm down. This isn’t like you. You’re brave. You’re a fucking beast who will blow up a kitchen and kidnap a tech geek to win a stupid cooking contest with no cash prize. You’re a good writer and this is going to be fine,” he reassured her. “So stop freaking out, okay?”

Maka exhaled shakily and squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. Too much coffee is making me jittery. I’m cool.”

Soul leaned in and Maka’s heart thumped for completely different reasons. The seconds before she closed her eyes to kiss him were her favorite, she decided. His expression was relaxed, gentle, and bordered on beautiful; she could make out every freckle and eyelash. Even though they had kissed a handful times now, Maka didn’t think she would ever get tired of the chest tightening, exquisitely delicious torture of waiting for warm contact.

The kiss was soft and reassuring and if the elevator hadn’t dinged to let them know they had reached their destination, she might have been tempted to hit the emergency stop button and just spend the afternoon making out against one of the glass walls. She used to be such a nice, pure girl, Maka thought. Being in like with someone was making her so weird, but there was just no stopping it.

“Feel better?” Soul asked as they walked down a long corridor.

“Actually --” Maka caught his devilish grin and batted at his arm. “Ugh! Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not; I’m _helping_ ,” he stated. “It’s not my fault that you’re _soooo_ hot for me --”

Maka screamed and immediately put him into a headlock. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but she was the stronger of the two and Soul wouldn’t get loose without a fight. He was laughing too hard to put up much of a struggle and Maka found herself smiling in spite of her embarrassment. It was nice that he was trying so hard to put her at ease, even if he was risking bodily harm by doing so.

“Soul?” a voice asked. Attached to the voice was a short, curvy girl with cropped pink hair wearing what looked like a diamond encrusted flesh colored catsuit. Maka immediately recognized her as Kim Diehl, Pop Princess, Dominator of Music Charts. She was even more beautiful in the flesh with large green eyes and a breast to hip ratio that made her the envy of many women and an object of lust for just as many men.

Soul looked up, still trapped in Maka’s hold. “Kim?”

Another woman, this one with dark hair tied back in a severe bun, popped up behind Kim. Her smart navy suit screamed elegance and authority -- a direct contrast to Kim’s seemingly nude visage. “Maka?”

“Jackie?” Maka asked, shoving Soul away quickly.

Jackie’s expression darkened. She scowled very openly at Soul, who managed to look both unimpressed and unsurprised as he rubbed the back of his neck. “ _Soul._ Your haircut looks tacky.”

“Great to see you, too,” he said dryly. Soul turned to Maka. “You two know each other?”

Instead of answering, Maka ran to Jackie and threw her arms around her. Kim and Soul glanced between the two of them, dumbfounded. “I haven’t seen you since graduation! What are you doing here?”

Jackie hugged her back warmly and Maka was immediately flooded with memories. Nights of intense study sessions, comforting Jackie when her parents had all but disowned her for being a lesbian, ice cream sundae parties in their dorm after finals -- Maka remembered it all so fondly.  “I’m Kim’s manager. I’m so sorry -- if I had known you had a hand in _The Language of Letting Go_ , I would have called you. Soul’s been quite secretive about his writing partner.” Her tone was cool but there was just a hint of accusation there.

Soul shrugged, undisturbed by her icy demeanor. “Surprise?”

“So, you’re working with him.” Jackie grimaced. “And _dating_ him, if those rumors are true. Ugh, Maka, please.”

“I’m standing right here,” Soul said. “Literally right here.”

Kim clapped her hands together and cleared her throat, obviously trying to force cheer. There was something a bit saccharine about her smile and both Soul and Jackie looked visibly uneasy. “So _you’re_ the infamous Columbia roommate that I’ve heard so much about. And now we’re _all_ going to be working together. How _amazing_ is that?”

  
“I’m Maka Albarn. Nice to meet you. And yeah -- Jackie and I were pretty close in college. We roomed together… what? Our last two years, I think. It’s so good to see her again,” Maka trilled, face flushing with happiness.

Jackie flashed her back a smile and Kim, for whatever reason, did not share in their happiness. Her cheer had quickly dropped and in its place was something much less friendly. “Well, isn’t this just a small world?”

“Too fucking small for comfort,” Soul muttered.

“Soul,” Kim all but purred, “you haven’t been returning any of my texts. I thought we were _friends_?”

Jackie, who was still loosely embracing Maka, dug her nails into the other woman’s bare arm. Maka yelped and Jackie immediately let go, apologizing profusely. _Curious_. Maka might not have been relationship savvy but she could sense a little jealousy coming from her old roommate. Although Jackie was nothing if not professional, Maka supposed that she could have had a thing for her client, which made Soul the competition.

Soul only shifted uncomfortably, hands in his pockets. He looked like he wished he was anywhere but here and Maka concurred. “I’ve been busy.”

Kim looked pointedly at Maka. “I can see that.”

The unspoken tension between Kim, Jackie, and Soul was stifling. Jackie disliked Soul, that much was obvious. She hadn’t bothered to hide her distaste for him since the moment they got out of the elevator. The rest was just speculation on Maka’s part: Kim liked Soul (just _how_ much?), Soul wanted to jump out a window (not that Maka could blame him, everything had gotten awkward so fast), and Maka was completely out of the loop. She was uncomfortable and curious and wanted answers that no one was providing.

Great, Maka thought. A couple of days into her first real relationship in a long time and already her trust issues were rearing their ugly head.

When they finally made it to the studio, they were greeted by a very large, intimidating looking man in a suit waiting by the door and a smaller girl with long blue hair standing near him. It looked like they had been holding hands at some point, but the girl quickly dropped his and jumped in the air like a skittish cat when the group walked through the door. Both the man and the girl looked at Soul and Maka curiously, the girl with a scowl, the man with a smile. Kim introduced the man as Free, her bodyguard, and the girl as Eruka, her makeup artist.

“Eruka, I need you to do my eyes again. The sparkles came off and I have an interview with MTV in an hour,” Kim commanded, sitting down in a large, leather chair. “I can’t be _unsparkly._ ”

“Bitch,” Eruka muttered darkly under her breath and Maka bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! I’m coming!” Eruka squeaked and ran to Kim’s side to sparkle her up properly.

Maka stood there awkwardly as Eruka tended to Kim and Jackie and Soul talked business. “I loved your book,” Free the bodyguard said suddenly.

“Me?” Maka asked. “Are you talking to me?”

He nodded, crossing his arms over his very wide chest. Free looked more like an ex-con than a poetry lover, but Maka supposed the two weren’t mutually exclusive. “Your poetry is beautiful. I especially liked that one about the witch and her werewolf.  Would you sign a copy for me?”

Maka almost burst into messy tears right then and there. This was the first time since _Tales From Death City_ had come out that someone had praised her like this. Besides Soul, of course, but Maka was pretty sure that he had just been buttering her up to agree to their partnership. “Yes, of course! If you give me your address, I’ll send it to you right away.”

Soul’s irritated, slowly rising voice completely burst her happy poetry bubble. “-- you know what, Jackie? If you hate it so much, go on the internet and complain like everyone else. It’s damn good and you know it.”

“Well, the _lyrics_ are excellent but the music is sorely lacking in creativity. Kim deserves better music than _this._ ”

Maka groaned; she knew getting into the music industry was a mistake.

“Now, now, you two,” Kim said cheerfully. “Don’t fight over me. Ouch, Eruka! Watch where you stick that mascara wand!”

Eruka grumbled. “I’ll stick it right up your--”

“ _What was that_?”

“Eeek! Nothing!”

Maka only hoped she would make it out of this project unscathed.


	5. When The Lights Go Out

**_Warning for mild adult content and smooshy, non-graphic sexual situations._ **

“Well, _that_ was awkward.”

Soul had fucked up a lot in his life: his music career, relationships, school, the time he and Black*Star had a Big Mac eating contest and he wound up in the hospital, anything he wore between 1990 and 1999 -- the list went on and on.

But this?

 _This_ had to be his biggest fuck up to date.

Soul had very seriously miscalculated what a shitshow meeting Kim would be. If he’d known that Maka was probably the cause of Jackie’s gay awakening in college -- it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the way Jackie acted around Maka meant that she was more than just an old buddy -- he never would have brought her to meet Jackie’s jealous girlfriend, an all around diva princess who played second fiddle to no one.

More importantly, if Soul had known that he would actually _fall_ for his writer, he probably wouldn’t have sent her into the lion’s den to meet his ex-girlfriend.

Soul had no lingering attachments to Kim. He was pretty sure that they barely liked each other even when they were dating; it had been a relationship of convenience. Kim was starting her music career and Soul’s was on life support. She wanted his connections; he wanted… well, he didn’t exactly know what he wanted. Maybe a distraction from his shitty life and Kim more than provided.

They hadn’t been compatible on any level -- emotional, physical, or psychological -- so their relationship had slowly petered out over the course of a few months, much to the relief of Soul’s mother, who had disliked Kim the moment she set eyes on her. Soul had been apathetic about the whole affair-- nothing of value was lost except what little shreds of self esteem he had left. It only cemented his beliefs that he was definitely going to die alone, because he couldn’t even bring himself to care about one of the prettiest, most fun women he had ever known.

Until Soul met Maka, that is.

The current object of his affection frowned and panic gripped his heart. He was trying really hard not to screw this up but old, self sabotaging habits died hard. “Oh, you know. How my old college roommate hates your face and the woman we’re writing a song for is in love with you. A little warning beforehand would have been nice.”

Soul opened the door to the restaurant for her. Maka stepped in without saying thanks and he knew he was in trouble. “Kim is _not_ in love with me. Jackie probably wants me to get hit by a car, though. Not enough to kill me, but maybe enough to put me in traction for a few months.”

“She was jealous.”

“Yeah, of you and _Jackie_ ,” Soul pointed out. “Not you and me. She couldn’t care less about me, I promise.”

They were seated in a booth in the corner and Maka folded her arms over her chest. The point he made about her and Jackie went completely over her head, which meant Maka was probably just as relationship dumb as he was, if not more so. It was slightly comforting, slightly disconcerting. “Well, what’s the story?”

“What story?”

“There’s a story,” Maka said impatiently, “between you and Kim. I know there is.”

Soul carded a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to bash his face against the table. He and Maka were on the verge of something good -- she had met his entire extended family for fuck’s sake and still wanted to hang around him -- and now she was drudging up his not-so-sordid-but-mostly-embarrassing past. Outright lying to her was out of the question. Sidestepping the truth was a slippery slope.

He finally settled on the truth, but a watered down version that was more palatable to everyone. “There really isn’t much of a story. We dated for a little while a few years ago but it never went anywhere.”

“Oh,” Maka said, her expression unreadable. “So you _did_ date.”

“For all of five minutes,” Soul assured her. “Now our relationship is purely business.”

The edge of her lip curled. “Oh, you mean like ours?”

Okay. She had him there. If Soul wasn’t torn between crawling under the table and jumping out a window to escape more questioning, he would have politely golf clapped for her quick wit. “It’s different.” Maka was aggressively folding and unfolding her napkin and suddenly it hit him: “Are you jealous?”

Maka gasped, dropping her napkin on the ground. “What -- no -- how dare you--??”

It shouldn’t have made Soul as happy as it did, because Maka was visibly distressed, but that meant that she was really interested in him, didn’t it? More than just a business partner, more than just someone to kiss when the urge hit -- could he actually hope that she _really and actually liked him_?

Soul was about to dig deeper into this revelation but he was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious, familiar voice that screamed his companion’s name. Attached to the voice was a blue haired man wearing a sleeveless shirt that said, ARMS BARE, DON’T CARE. Soul and Maka simultaneously watched in horror as he swooped in, dropped next to Maka, and gave her a messy, wet, smooch on her forehead.

“Yo!” Black*Star said cheerfully. “Long time no see! Sorry I haven’t been in touch, minions, I’ve been in Germany shooting a film.” He and Soul slapped hands amicably before Black*Star turned his attention back to Maka. “So I guess you two are shackin’ up after all. _Nice._ ”

“Ew,” Maka blanched, wiping her face. “You slobbered all over me!”

Two women trailed behind Black*Star, one looking worried, and the other one looking annoyed. He recognized the worried one as Tsubaki Nakatsukasa, a martial artist and a very patient, loving, stuntwoman that often worked with Black*Star (she was affectionately known in the business as his “handler”). The other woman was ex-model and current fashion designer Liz Thompson, who Soul recalled had gotten out of the modeling business because she was, “Tired of being told what to do and how to dress and fuck eating lettuce for three meals a day.” As far as he knew, Liz and Tsubaki had recently gotten married, and Black*Star was their housemate-slash-pet that Tsubaki looked after, bless her heart.

Soul waved to them lazily as Maka tried to shove Black*Star out of the booth. “Hey. Congrats on the marriage.”

Tsubaki blushed prettily and thanked him, while Liz just watched the scene unfold between Black*Star and Maka. “Oi. Calm down, we’re in public now. Move over,” Liz ordered Soul. “There are no other seats here and I’m starving.”

Maka, the kinder of the two, immediately made room for them. She politely asked about Liz and Tsubaki’s wedding, trying to ignore how Black*Star was shoving three rolls in his mouth and chewing with his mouth open. The booth was now significantly more cozy with three extra people, but Soul was glad the heat was off of him to talk about Kim. Now he could focus on more important things like _how the fuck did Black*Star and Maka know each other?_ Things were getting a little too uncanny, and while Soul generally scoffed at things like fate, it was fucking weird that all roads led back to Maka.

“We grew up together,” Maka said at Soul’s questioning look. “Why do you think I work out at his tacky gym? It’s free.”

Black*Star scowled. “Hey! It’s stylish, not tacky!”

“I think the electric blue bear skin rugs in the locker rooms say otherwise,” Soul quipped. “So you guys have been friends since you were kids?”

“We lived next door to each other until the whole 2Kool4Skool thing,” Maka revealed. “And, like some sort of chronic disease, I just can’t seem to get rid of him completely.”

Black*Star only laughed at her half hearted insult. “I have way too much blackmail material on you, Albarn, you’re not about to let me run free.”

Maka looked at Black*Star worriedly, but Black*Star paid no heed to her concern, his scowl morphing into a wicked grin. He swallowed his bread and leaned over the table towards Soul. “Dude. Bro. Broseph. I know so many things about this girl. She,” he stuck his thumb in Maka’s direction, “used to have the _biggest_ crush on you.”

She squeaked some sort of denial while Tsubaki quietly tried to shush Black*Star but to no avail. Soul arched an eyebrow. How very interesting. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“No! Shut up, Black*Star!” Maka slapped him on the shoulder. “Stop making things up! And Soul, don’t listen to him!”

“She used to have your poster on her bedroom wall,” Black*Star faux whispered.

“Black*Star!”

“Pretty sure she used to kiss it every night --”

“ _Black*Star!_ ”

“She thinks your dimples are dreamy --”

Black*Star cackled riotously as Maka attempted to beat him over the head with her menu. Soul was mildly shocked but ultimately very pleased that young Maka -- who he imagined was exceedingly nerdy with thick reading glasses and braces and schoolgirl outfits -- had the hots for him. He couldn’t imagine her, at any age, fawning over his badly photoshopped posters, but the proof was in the pudding -- or in this case, her denial and full body blush. Talk about a much needed ego boost.

Tsubaki, arguably the only decent person at the table, sighed dreamily. “That’s so wonderful -- you’ve loved him all this time and now you’re together.”

“ _I DID NOT!_ ” Maka looked at Soul pleadingly. “Help.”

“I’m not wearing the denim outfits for you, just an FYI,” Soul said helpfully. “Sorry that your fantasy will never be fulfilled.”

“ARGH!”

Black*Star finally got tired of everyone talking about someone other than himself, so the rest of dinner was spent discussing his new movie and line of protein powder shakes. Every so often Soul would catch Maka’s eye and smirk and she would nudge his knee under the table or give him a _look;_ it took all of his self control not to start laughing because she was so disgruntled and it was adorable. He was definitely going to milk this for everything it was worth.

Despite her annoyance, Maka’s hand slipped over his under the table and Soul quickly laced their fingers together as Black*Star droned on and on about his Bro-tein Powder Shakes. Her thumb stroked his palm and wrist and all Soul could think was that they needed to get the hell out of there and back to his apartment at once. He wanted to kiss her, badly, but he wasn’t brave enough to do it in front of a live audience.

Liz and Tsubaki got the hint that they had overstayed their welcome and after throwing down some money for the check, they dragged a whining Black*Star away to his next interview.

“Should we also get out of here?” Maka asked. “Your place?”

“Yeah,” Soul said calmly, even though his heart was threatening to burst out of his chest a la _Alien._ He was rusty at this and he sincerely hoped that sex, or whatever they wound up doing, was like riding a bicycle -- he might have been out of practice but surely he hadn’t forgotten the mechanics of it all, had he? There were a lot of things to worry about: Did he even have condoms at his apartment? Should he take another shower before they go at it? What was the etiquette for asking someone if you could go down on them for an hour?

Soul grabbed Maka’s hand as they got up from their booth, deciding that having a panic attack over buying the right lube was decidedly uncool. He would just take things as they came and not make a big deal out of it. Maka suddenly stopped short and Soul bumped into her back, wondering if she was getting cold feet. He was about to reassure her that they could go somewhere else to hang out, somewhere _not_ his apartment, when he caught the look on her face.

“What’s wrong…?” The question died in his throat when Soul looked in her line of sight.

There he was in all of his glory: Noah Brubeck. He was standing at the bar with a little entourage around him and a young man at his side who was gazing up at him adoringly. Maka was tense, face furious, and she looked ready to pounce. Soul put his hand on her shoulder, trying to nudge her towards the exit. Usually he would leave her to her own devices -- she was a big girl, after all -- but he didn’t want her to get arrested for assault.

“-- the idea just came to me, you know?” Noah said charmingly. “ _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat_ wasn’t my best work, really, but I think that it captures young adult angst and heartbreak in a way that most people would find relatable.”

“Noah, you’re so wonderful,” the young man beside him sighed.

Maka hissed and Soul dug his fingers into her shoulder. “Maka, don’t.”

“I just want to go talk to him,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Maka...”

“I’m just gonna talk to him.”

If it came down to it, Soul wasn’t sure that he _could_ stop her. Maka went to the gym; Soul sat on his couch, watched reality TV, and ate pints of Ben & Jerry’s. “Maka, no.”

“I’m just gonna punch him in his smug face.” Her body was trembling with pure rage, much like when they had passed the bookstore that had his picture in it.

Soul slung his arm around her shoulders and started walking them through the restaurant. They needed to go and fast, before Maka Hulked out and murdered a celebrity in front of a hundred or so people. There was a tiny voice inside of him, one that sounded strangely like Wes, that alerted him that this would be all over the internet if blood was spilled. Maka was thankfully letting him lead her out without struggle and Soul thought they were in the clear until Noah’s little lackey noticed them.

“Maka Albarn?” he asked, and Soul wanted to choke him with his sweater vest.

Maka called him _gopher_ under her breath, but he had no idea if that was a nickname or she was just referring to him being a _Go-For_ for Brubeck. Noah turned from his fans to face them, expression smug. He looked dapper in a button down shirt and slacks, the epitome of New York pretentious intellect chic. Soul almost thought about letting Maka go wipe that smile off of his face but that stupid Wes voice was warning him about _Nipnopz6969_ catching wind of the scandal and all their hard work going down the tubes.

“Maka, it’s been so long,” Noah said, voice dripping with insincerity. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since graduation.” She just stood there, eyes wide, unable to say anything. Her fists were clenched and Soul only held her tighter. “Stay for a drink?”

A pause and then: “I’d love to get your thoughts on _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat._ ”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Maka finally spat, surprise turning to rage, and Soul and Gopher both gasped -- Soul had never heard her say anything stronger than “frick” or “darn” in the time that they had known each other. This situation had gone from zero to sixty in record time. “Fuck you. You’re a hack and _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat_ is pretentious garbage.”

Soul watched it happen in slow motion -- Maka grabbed some poor bar patron’s drink (“Hey!” the blond guy cried, “that was my cosmo!”) and splashed it into Noah’s face. Gopher screamed a very dramatic, “How dare you?!” and Noah sputtered for a second but then laughed as he wiped his sticky face with a napkin. “Temper, temper, Maka,” he said, sneering. “Jealousy is such an ugly look on you.”

Some of Noah’s fans tittered, wondering who had the gall to do such a thing to a beloved author. Maka and Soul looked vaguely familiar, they whispered, and hey, wasn’t he that guy from that boy band that only had that one hit in the 90s? Weren’t they recently on that reality show together? Weren’t they dating?

 _Abort, abort, abort!_ Soul’s Inner!Wes screamed but it was much too late. The damage was done and he wasn’t about to abandon Maka.

“You _bitch_ \--” Gopher started and Soul immediately stood in front of Maka. It was all for show, because Soul had never gotten into a physical fight in his life and Maka could easily bench press both of them at the same time. But he stood a good foot taller than the misogynistic little runt and the smaller man was visibly frightened.

Soul sneered, baring his teeth. _Take that, Twitter,_ he thought triumphantly, _finally these are coming in handy._  “Watch your mouth.”

It wasn’t long before security galloped over and broke up the argument. Maka and Soul were politely asked to leave, the _and never come back_ strongly implied. Soul expected Maka to argue with them or throw another drink or _something,_ but she only looked tired and defeated, too close to tears for Soul’s comfort.

Soul reached out his hand for her and Maka took it, clinging to it like a lifeline. They walked back to his place in uncomfortable silence, both lost in their own thoughts, each one more complicated than the next.

* * *

As soon as they were back at his apartment, Maka parked herself at his piano bench wordlessly. Her body was a live wire, all tension and stiff muscles, and Soul slowly sunk next to her, making sure to leave some space between them. Her finger absently tapped at the G key over and over, progressively getting louder and more destructive until Soul put his hand over her wrist.

“The piano did nothing wrong,” he said, only semi-jokingly.

She grunted, fingers curling into a fist. “Just ask me. I know you want to.”

He did. He wanted to. But instead, he said, “I read the book. You know, _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat._ Don’t worry, I didn’t buy it. Downloaded it illegally on the internet. One less sale for Brubeck.”

Maka almost smiled and Soul continued on. “You wrote that book, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t a question. Soul had read her poetry -- hell, he’d read everything she’d published since she wrote that expose on school lunches in her junior high newspaper -- and _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat_ had her style written all over it. He had become intimate with her evocative images of dark and light and the shadowy depths of despair that were penetrated by the tiniest sliver of hope and goodness, so much so that he almost regretted asking her to waste her talent on a stupid pop song.

Soul had been such an idiot when he first approached her. His intentions were shallow and he was ashamed that he thought, even for a second, that her poetry was nothing but bubblegum teenage fluff.

Maka pursed her lips and folded her hands in her lap, knuckles white as she tried to stop herself from trembling. Soul resisted reaching out to hold her hand comfortingly; he knew that she didn’t want to be pitied. They sat there in silence, Maka squirming in her seat and Soul waiting for her patiently.

“ _‘She stood at the edge of moon and watched the world fall to ruin around her feet. Mother had warned her that she could lose it all but only if she was lucky enough to have something to lose. The magical trenchcoat made her strong and brave but it was all for naught because her deepest fears had still become reality. She was the last person left at the end of the world’_ ,”Soul recited. He had read the last paragraph of that book at least a thousand times. “Those are your words, aren’t they?”

Maka looked down at the piano. “I was going through a really hard time my last year in college. My parents were going through a messy divorce, Mama was giving me a hard time about my future career, and then she completely disappeared to start a new life with a better husband and better kids. Noah was one of my professors. Creative Writing.”

Soul didn’t want to jump to conclusions and maybe he had been watching too much daytime TV, but _sordid affair with college professor_ was the first thing that came to mind. Noah was handsome and charismatic and smart and successful -- he could see how that might be attractive to some people, Maka included.

“I --” Maka noticed the furrow in his brow and gave him a lopsided smile. “Nothing like _that_ happened, Soul. It was strictly platonic.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Soul said quickly, mortified that she was able to read him so well.  “I’m not uh -- judging. If it did. It’s not my business.”

She unfolded her hands and placed one on his knee. He immediately covered it with his. “He liked my writing. And God, I was looking for any sort of validation, you know? It made me feel special. Like I actually had talent.” Soul opened his mouth and Maka quickly cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say and you don’t have to reassure me. This was years ago. Anyway, I wrote _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat_ as a sort of catharsis, a way to make myself feel a little less alone in the world. It’s not my best work -- I wasn’t kidding when I called it pretentious garbage -- but it still irks me that he’s getting famous off of the worst years of my life.”

“I should have let you beat him up,” Soul ground out.

“No, you made the right call. It wouldn’t be very good publicity for _The Language of Letting Go_ if I wound up in prison,” Maka said.

Soul squeezed her hand and Maka smiled thinly. For the first time since he’d known her, she looked small and vulnerable. It killed him that someone like Noah had taken power away from a woman who was always so strong. He mentally ran through all the things he could possibly do to the author -- sue him? Get a hit out on him? Encourage Wes to seduce him and dump him? Soul wasn’t above using his brother for revenge, and truthfully, Wes probably would enjoy every minute of it.

Maka leaned her head on his shoulder. “Can I tell you something really embarrassing? Don’t laugh.”

“It can’t be any more embarrassing than you having my poster on your wall,” he reassured her.

“It was _one_ magazine cut out when I was twelve, oh my God!” Maka slapped his hand away from hers. “Now I’m not telling you. You’re a jerk.”

“Tell me.”

She turned and faced the piano fully, free hand stroking the keys lightly. “I actually listened to your CD when I was writing _The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat._ Not,” Maka said quickly as soon as she saw the look of horror on his face, “the solo pop album one. The piano one from when you were younger. Black*Star sent to me as a joke because he was convinced I was your number one fan -- shut _up_ about the poster -- and I really liked it.”

Soul didn’t know what to say. On one hand, her interest in his piano playing was probably due to her shitty musical sense -- Maka was a Barry Manilow fan, a _Fannilow--_ and she couldn’t be trusted. On the other, he couldn’t deny that it felt good to have _inspired_ her to write something so personal. Secretly, Soul had always wanted to get back into classical music, but he had strayed so far from the path of a real musician that he wasn’t sure that he could do it, even if he tried.

Maka got up and walked over to his laptop, pulling up Youtube. Soul was infinitely relieved that none of his recent Google searches for her popped up. “Your brother put the CD on your page.”

“I have a Youtube page?” Soul asked in wonder. “Fucking Wes.”

His pre-pubescent music played in the background over his expensive, exceptionally good quality speaker system before he could stop her. It wasn’t Soul’s favorite thing to hear -- too many mistakes, too many regrets, too many memories -- but if it made her feel better, he supposed that he would allow it. It was a small price to pay for her happiness.

“Someday, I hope you’ll play like this again,” she said, eyes sincere. “I love it.”

He swallowed hard. Soul could feel emotion creeping up his throat, tight and painful. Hadn’t he always been waiting for someone to notice him, the _real_ him? Love him and his music? Not the commercial shit he put out for the sake of making a living but the music that really moved him?

“As much as you loved my ‘dimples and boyish smile’?” he asked instead, because teasing her was much easier than confronting those heavy feelings.

Maka screeched like a dinosaur and launched herself at him, effectively knocking him clear off the bench. “Shut up! Oh my God, I did _not_ say those things!”

They landed half underneath his piano, a tangled mess of limbs, Maka comfortably on top and Soul seeing stars from bashing his head on the way down. He had to laugh at their awkwardness but it was punctuated with a painful groan as he reached to touch the back of his head. No blood, at least. The dull ache was nothing compared to the warm weight of Maka on top of him. If this was how he was going to die, head wound and all, he would happily embrace it.

He briefly heard Maka ask, alarmed, if he was okay because that looked like it hurt. Soul replied that he would probably live, and if not, this would make a great story for TMZ. They both laughed but made no move to leave their little piano fortress. It was like their own little shelter from the emotional hurricane they had just confronted, a small protection from the wreckage of their past. It was cozy and safe, away from cameras, away from prying eyes, and away from judgment.

Maka smiled down at him from her perch. “Soul.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He blinked at her. “Yeah? You don’t have to ask.”

Art by [Krib](http://kribart.tumblr.com/)!      

“I don’t want to taint your sacred piano,” Maka teased. “Pretty sure you like this thing more than me.”

“She was here first,” Soul said solemnly.

Maka rolled her eyes but leaned down and kissed him sweetly, smiling against his mouth. Something was different about this kiss, Soul thought.  It was the kind of kiss that led to more kissing and more _something else_ but he wasn’t exactly sure what that something else was. He might have been reading too much into it. It was probably a mixture of wishful thinking and all that Unresolved Sexual Tension. Soul was fine with just kissing her under his piano, if she was down for that. He wouldn’t ask for more than she was willing to give.

He would follow her wherever she wanted to go and however she wanted to get there.

Sex was a weird thing for Soul, usually. It was something that he had done in the past because that was what people were _supposed_ to do in a relationship, but it had always felt mechanic, unnatural, bordering on unpleasant. The physical aspect was fine -- insert tab A into slot B managed to get the job done -- but the emotional connection was completely lacking, as was Soul’s interest.

With Maka, it was different.

It was corny and cliche to admit, like he was some lovesick teenager in one of her Young Adult coming of age novels, but things were different. _He_ felt different. They spent nearly all of their time together and when they were apart, Soul still found himself thinking of her. He wondered what she was up to, if she had remembered to lock the gate to her window, did she buy that blue sweater they saw in Macys? He wondered if she thought about him. He wondered if it was weird to wonder about her thinking of him.

But then Maka would do something like text him good morning and remind him to take his multivitamin or bring him his favorite bagel for breakfast and he didn’t have to wonder anymore.

For the first time maybe ever, Soul thought- - _really_ thought, rather than just told his immature high school guy friends he did -- about initiating sex with another human being. He _wanted_ intimacy, wanted to get closer to her and let her get closer to him. He was nearly thirty and he was finally learning the true power of fantasies and attraction. The amount of time Soul spent thinking about what her skin tasted like, what her voice sounded like during the throes of passion, and how amazing her hair would look spilled all over his pillows was immeasurable.

Soul had no choice but to embrace his feelings -- Maka had ingrained herself so deeply into his life in such a short of amount of time that trying to deny it would be as useless as trying to get Black*Star to use his indoor voice. Life was strange; he’d always imagined himself dying alone in front of his piano, a talentless sellout who had never amounted to anything. Soul had never been suicidal, not really, but he couldn’t deny that there were dark days when he thought, _Oh, okay_ to never waking up again. But now? Now he actually looked forward to early mornings and bird chirping and all of that romantic Disney shit just so he could see Maka, someone who actually believed that he was someone worthwhile.

He never could have dreamt that he’d fall so deeply for a girl who nearly set him on fire on national TV.

Soul’s hands rested on her hips lightly, resisting the urge to run his fingertips over the smooth, bare skin of her stomach and back. He had seen the glory of her muscles and the temptation to become better acquainted with them was strong. But he resisted, because every part of her was good and he would take what he could get, would happily be grateful for whatever she wanted to share with him. There was no need to rush to the finish line, he thought, fingers trembling in anticipation. He wanted to do this right.

Maka sensed his hesitation and took his hand in hers, guiding it from her hip to the hem of her shirt. “You can -- um. If you want.”

He did not need to be told twice.

He _wanted_.

Soul let his fingers slide under her t-shirt to trace nonsensical patterns on exposed hip bones (thank you, thank you Jesus and Moses and everyone else for lowcut jeans) and sharp ribs. He could feel goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch and he felt oddly powerful knowing that he could elicit such a response from her. Eventually, sadly, Soul ran out of bare skin to caress and he found himself lightly grazing the underwire of what he was sure was a very sensible cotton bra.

“Can I--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Maka said impatiently. “You’re so slow! You know what, I’m just gonna--”

Soul watched, entranced, as Maka struggled to rip her t-shirt off with only three feet of clearance underneath his beloved piano. It was awkward and her little wriggle was decidedly not sexy, but it was so endearing and the sight of her in, what else, a sensible cotton bra, rendered everything else null and void _because Maka was under his piano shirtless, for him, waiting to be touched, by him, and holy shit, was he really allowed to do these things?_

“Say something.”

He shook his head, as if clearing away cobwebs. “You’re the writer. I leave the word-ing to you.”

Maka leaned down again, encouraging him to explore the valley of skin between her breasts, which he did, happily. It was soft and pale with an odd smattering of freckles that he desperately wanted to kiss. He wondered if she would let him. He hoped so.  “So sing something, then, Mr. Musician.”

“I’m kind of distracted at the moment.” Soul slid a bra strap down her shoulder. He waited for her nod before moving on to the other. “Will whistling work?”

“I’ll accept it.”

Soul whistled Billie Holiday’s _Body and Soul_ enthusiastically, trying to drown out his piano in the background. He reached behind her to unclasp her bra and Soul, very uncoolly, fumbled with it for a few, very long seconds before Maka swatted his hands away to do the job herself. The bra was flung away and Soul tried not to stare, he really did, because he was a grown ass man and not some horny teenage boy but _fuck_.

She was beautiful and he could have laid there and stared at her forever.

 _No,_ Soul told himself, _do not become a pop song cliché. You’re better than this, Evans._

“Still with me?” Maka asked after he hesitated for just a second too long, her skin flushing from the bridge of her nose all the way down to her stomach.

“Yeah. I’m here,” Soul breathed. “Definitely here for this.”

Her body was amazing, all hard muscles and soft curves and an ocean of untouched skin just waiting to be explored. There were a multitude of tiny, silvery scars and beauty marks that begged to be worshipped. He could smell her skin, a heady, familiar scent that told him that she had been shopping in his bathroom cabinet again. _This_ is what inspired poets and songwriters, he thought as he smoothed his thumb over the curve of her breast with the barest of pressure. Soul could probably write an entire goddamn symphony inspired by Maka’s tiny hitch of breath and the soft silky smoothness of her _everything_.

His other hand reached up to the back of her head, tugging her down to kiss him because even an inch of space between them was too great a distance. Maka’s hands rested on either side of his head, successfully kissing him but also leaving enough room between them so Soul could properly touch her, all hesitance gone. She gasped into his mouth when he squeezed her more firmly, arching her back into his touch.

Soul marveled at her body, wondering how it was he had gone an entire thirty years without ever truly appreciating the human form in all of its beauty. “You’re sensitive,” he murmured in her ear, enjoying how that, too, was pink.

Maka squeaked and sat straight up, nearly hitting her head on the piano. “I can’t help it! It’s -- they’re --”

 _Interesting._  “What, your nip --”

“I hate that word! _Don’t_ ,” she moaned. “Use something else instead.”

He snorted. She was a writer and she couldn’t say the word _nipple_? _Really_? “Like what? _Nipnop_?”

“Oh noooo, oh no, oh my God, I almost forgot about that word until you just reminded me,” Maka laughed helplessly, her hair obscuring his vision for a moment. “ _Nipnopz6969._ ”

Fucking Twitter. Fucking Nipnopz6969. “Goodbye, hardon.”

She smiled smugly; the obvious physical evidence pressing against her thigh was damning. “We both know _that’s_ a lie.”

He grunted and his hands pressed at her shoulder blades insistently. Maka immediately leaned down, brushing her long hair to the side. Her efforts were rewarded with kisses to her neck and shoulders and gentle nips to her collar bones. Lips trailed down to re-map where his fingers had been, carefully, so carefully letting teeth and tongue get reacquainted with the pink marks her bra had left behind and the tiny little freckle that had no earthly business being in a place that never got sun. Soul could almost feel the vibrations of her fluttering heartbeat against his tongue and he groaned against her skin, teeth digging in lightly. He didn’t think it was polite to leave a mark behind but Maka was pressing herself into his mouth, encouraging him with soft sighs and eager hands in his hair.

Soul bit down at the soft juncture between neck and shoulder and she tugged a little too hard at his hair. His hips rolled against hers sharply in response; the needy noise he made at the back of his throat surprising them both. Alright, Soul thought with some embarrassment, so he was a bonafide masochist. Unsurprising, given the circumstances of all of his relationships.

Maka took full advantage of having his head tipped up -- she kissed him soundly, experimenting with gentle teeth against his bottom lip. A shock of pleasure hit him right in the stomach, hot and tight, cementing the earlier suspicions of his masochism; Maka could do whatever she wanted to him and he would probably thank her for it. His brain was simultaneously sluggish and racing a million miles a minute as he wondered, arousal at full throttle, what her short nails would feel like dragging down his skin.

Soul practically panted at the thought; he hoped he would get to find out.

He slowly traced the worn inseam of Maka’s jeans, being careful not to venture too far into Uncharted Territory without permission. He wanted to -- fuck, how he wanted to -- but he didn’t want to rush or pressure her.

“Maka--” He was answered by the deafening sound of Maka popping the button of her jeans open. “-- _oh_.”

“You don’t have to,” Maka said breathlessly and yep, the mark on the underside of her breast was going to bloom into a wicked hickey, Soul thought with glee, “but if you want to...”

_Yes, yes he wanted._

Soul nudged her to roll off of him, supporting her head with one arm while he curled next to her. The jeans were a major roadblock on his path to happiness and they needed to go. Luckily, patience was a virtue that Maka did not possess and she rolled them down and kicked them off before Soul could suggest she get more comfortable. Her bare thighs were a thing of glory and he took insurmountable pleasure in stroking the sensitive skin and writing silly messages like _A Caged Birb Wuz Here_ and _2KOOL4SCHOOL SUX_ with his fingertips until she outright whined at him to stop messing around.

“Haven’t you ever heard of build up?” Soul asked, finally sliding up the thin cotton of her black underwear.

“We’ve had weeks of build up,” Maka said bluntly. “Now it’s time for follow through.”

He slipped a hand beneath the elastic waistband, fingers reverently exploring all flesh available to him. It was complete sensory overload -- he drank in the sight of her rapturous expression, felt the warmth of her body, the smell of her stolen lotion, that little thief -- and Soul hoped that he was strong enough to make it through this without losing it like a horny virgin.

It shouldn’t have surprised Soul that they did their best work as a team; he was the music and she was the lyrics, after all. On their own, they were good, but together, they were _great_. It didn’t take long for Maka to finish, body curling quietly into his and pulsating around his fingers, voice soft and melodic as she called out for him. He held her close, tucking her head under his chin as her breathing slowed and trembling stopped. Maka pressed grateful kisses to his neck, her hands trailing down his stomach to rest at the top of his jeans.

Soul’s back ached something fierce from lying on the floor and he was about to suggest that they move to the couch or to his bed or to freaken Mars, just as long as it was more comfortable than thin carpeting, when Maka started laughing.

He hoped it wasn’t a reflection on his performance. For someone so out of practice, he thought he did passingly well. B+, at least. “What?”

She kissed him on the chin and snorted the most delightful, unladylike snort. “I just _really_ hope your brother wasn’t taping that.”

* * *

Their rest of their first time was a comedy of errors.

Unsurprisingly, sex underneath a piano came with its dangers. Maka’s hair had gotten stuck on Soul’s pants zipper when she attempted to return his earlier favor and Soul nearly knocked himself unconscious when he jerked up too quickly. There was condom fumbling -- he had wasted two out of pure nerves -- and awkward positions and leg cramps and a lot of “Oh my _fucking God_ , hold on Maka, mercy, I need a break, God _how are you this flexible_??” on his end, but it was beautiful and perfect and Soul wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

Maybe next time, they would do it in a place where Maka _wouldn’t_ get mild rug burn on her back.

They both needed a shower but settled on a relaxing bath instead (mostly because Soul was still trying to get the feeling back in his thighs and standing was a thing he wasn’t willing or able to do at the moment). One bath bomb later (and so much teasing from Maka, who couldn’t believe a “cool” guy like Soul enjoyed something called _Honey Bee_ ) and they were lazing in his fancy clawed bathtub, Soul washing Maka’s back while she worked on their song. Her dedication was admirable but he would much rather enjoy their newfound closeness than think about Kim or _The Language of Letting Go_.

Art by [Krib](http://kribart.tumblr.com/)!

“Wanna wash your hair?” Soul asked.

“Mmm,” she said noncommittally. “‘ _We could have been everything / Everything that we wanted to be / But you caught me in a whirlwind storm / And shook me out back to sea_.’ Thoughts?”

“S’good.” He reached for the bottle shampoo and poured some into his hand. “Close your eyes.”

Maka looked over her shoulder and pouted. “You weren’t paying attention.”

“I have you naked in my bathtub between my legs, forgive me for not having a single fuck to give about work. Turn around.”

She obediently turned back around and Soul lathered up her hair, being careful not to get any in her eyes. Maka sighed happily as he massaged her scalp. “That feels nice. If you’re not careful you’re going to spoil me. I’ll never be able to bathe by myself ever again.”

She was welcome in his bathtub anytime. She could move in, if she wanted. She could literally hijack his entire apartment and steal all of his shit and Soul would be fine with it, just as long as he got to be there with her. The sudden intense feeling of wanting her around more permanently frightened him -- they had only known each other a few months and Soul wasn’t exactly the type of person who let people in easily. But here he was, sharing his bathtub with her and scheming how he could lure her into staying the night.

“By the way, your mom friended me on Facebook,” Maka said conversationally, closing her eyes as he rinsed the shampoo from her hair. “I saw all your Bar Mitzvah pictures and I’m sorry I doubted you about Wes’ Michael Jackson phase. I’m impressed that he was committed enough to wear the red leather jacket to a black tie affair, though.”

Soul snorted. “My mom likes you. Which is kind of amazing, because she’s hated every other girl I’ve _actually_ dated for real,” he said.

Maka turned around to face him fully, folding her legs underneath her. Her hair was dripping and sticking to her skin and he wanted nothing more than to follow the trails of droplets sliding down her shoulders and back. “I’m sitting in your bathtub with you naked. We desecrated your piano. Feels plenty real to me.”

Soul could not afford to fuck this up with his snark and poor self confidence. He had to be straight with Maka or else this thing, whatever it was, was going to end even before it ever got a chance to start.

“Ah, shit,” Soul swore and reached out for her. “That’s not what I meant. It was -- _is--_ real. If you want it to be. Fuck,” he groaned. “Sorry, I’m bad at this..”

“You’re really bad at this,” Maka agreed. “But I like you, so I can look past it.”

That made him sit up a little straighter, grin a little wider. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” she hummed. “You’re just such a heartthrob that I’m going to line my walls with all your pictures from _Tiger Beat_ magazine.” Soul splashed her and Maka spluttered indignantly. “I take it back,” she wiped at her nose, “you’re so rude that even your dreamy dimples can’t make up for it. Harvar was my absolute favorite member of 2Kool4School.”

“Hate to break it to you but you’re not his type.”

“What? He doesn’t like blondes?” Maka questioned.

“Oh no, he’s fine with blondes. It’s _girls_ that he’s not into.”

“Fine,” Maka whipped her head around, slapping him in the face with her wet hair vengefully, “then since my love will never come to fruition, I’ll just have to settle for you.”

He leaned back in the tub, shrugging. “I think we both know I’m not too proud to be your second choice.”

She gave him a hard pressed look and he could feel an impending lecture on self esteem on the horizon, but none came. “I’m starting to get pruney, we should probably get out. It’s getting kind of late…” Maka trailed off, looking up at him shyly.

This was it.

Do or die.

“Do you…” No. That wasn’t working. “Should you --” Nope. That didn’t feel right either. Soul smoothed her wet hair out of her face, leaving his hand on her cheek. He gathered up all the courage he didn’t know he had. “Stay the night?”

She immediately turned her head and pressed her lips against the palm of his hand, as if she had been waiting for the invitation. “I hope you have cereal because neither of us can be trusted with breakfast.”

Soul let himself breathe again. “I’ve got Lucky Charms. You in?”

“I’m in.”


	6. The Hardest Part of Breaking Up (Is Getting Back Your Stuff)

Maka made an executive decision that the best part of having a secret sexual rendezvous with her partner was not the actual act of doing the dirty deed, but getting to sleep next to him in his bed.

The sex was great, too, especially after figuring out the mechanics of it all, but there was something deeply intimate about lying in bed with him the morning after while she played on a Nintendo DS and he read on his cellphone.

Maka was on her back and Soul had unceremoniously shoved his face into her modest cleavage, head turned as he scrolled down his phone. She alternated between watering the crops in her game and running her fingers through Soul’s ridiculously unkempt sex hair. Sometimes they made small talk but mostly they said nothing at all, letting comfortable silence take over as they quietly invaded each other’s personal space. Once in awhile, mostly during the times when Soul dozed off, Maka caught herself getting strangely emotional. She had always hoped she could have something like this but never allowed herself the luxury of opening herself up to possibly getting hurt.

Maybe she hadn’t finished in first place in _The Hunger Games,_ but Maka felt like she had won the grand prize in the form of a snarky, surly, adorable musician with bad posture, a crazy family, and a smile that made her insides melt.

“What’re you playing?” Soul slurred, back to reading on his phone.

“Harvest Moon. Your cousin Dave lent it to me,” Maka said.

Soul wiggled a bit, settling between her legs. He refused to dislodge his face from her chest. “Dave? Really? I thought he hated everyone.”

“He does, in that angry teenage kinda way,” Maka agreed. “But we bonded over Doc Martens and I helped him do his AP Physics homework, so now we’re friends. He wants me to help him pick out a dress for prom.”

Her partner-- boyfriend?-- lifted his eyebrows. “A dress?”

“Dave doesn’t feel that clothes are gendered and so he should be able to wear a dress to the prom,” Maka recited.

“And what did you say to him?”

Maka shrugged. “I said we’ll invite Liz and make a day of it. She knows dresses better than I do.”

Soul broke out into a grin, pulling himself up to kiss her. “You’re the coolest.” He paused. “Even if you aggressively watered my plants and killed them all.”

So maybe Maka didn’t have a green thumb but she had tried so hard, darn it! “You didn’t even _like_ them!”

“True. And hey, Wes was right. It _did_ get girls to stay over,” he joked.

Maka brushed her lips against his cheek, enjoying the feel of his early morning stubble. She noticed that Soul hadn’t loosened his death grip on her cellphone, even as they cuddled together. It occurred to her that she should have been offended but then again, she was a writer. She knew the lure of words better than anyone. “Are you still reading that thing?”

“Fucking yeah I’m still reading. I can’t believe you never finished this _Spirit Rider_ college AU, it’s really good,” Soul said. “Never thought I’d utter those words.”

Maka laughed. “Welcome to fandom hell. ‘You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.’”

“I really don’t think The Eagles had a 70+ episode show with zero romantic resolution in mind when they wrote that song,” he snorted.

“We’ll never know for sure, will we?”

“Brat.” Soul tossed his phone, grabbing her DS and throwing it to the other side of the bed.

“Hey! I was feeding my cows!”

He caged her between his arms, leaning down to go nose to nose with her. “Are you saying I’m not as interesting as a game?”

Maka hummed, looking thoughtful. “Well, my husband in the game waters my plants and picks my weeds. All you do is complain about the current state of music and drool in your sleep.”

Soul looked extremely offended at the accusations. “I made you breakfast.”

“You poured the cereal,” Maka said flatly.

“It counts,” he insisted. “At least I didn’t set _your_ food on fire, unlike a certain someone.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Are _you_ ever going to let go how I messed with your chicken?”

“Absolutely not,” she affirmed.

Soul groaned and Maka pulled him down, combing her fingers through his hair while they lazily kissed, both too exhausted to attempt anything rated more than PG-13. They were content to just lie there together, though Soul didn’t have much of a choice because he whined to Maka that he pulled at least eight different muscles the night before. “I should probably get up and try to do more songwriting. You know, be a productive member of society.”

“Overrated,” Soul rumbled. “Just become the family disappointment. Then no one expects you to do anything.”

“Soul…” Maka hated it when he talked that way about himself. Even if his music career had been less than stellar, he was still a good person with a lot of talent. She only hoped that one day he could see that for himself. “Don’t say that.”

“Forget it,” he said quickly and Maka considered the subject dropped. “But don’t worry about the song for now.”

“We have to give the rest of it to Kim in a week,” she pointed out, grazing her nails lightly along the back of his neck.

Soul made a noise like a contented housecat. “But we could do other things…”

Oh. _Oh._ Even though Maka was exhausted and Soul was injured, she could probably conjure enough energy for extremely lazy morning sex. Heavy petting at the very least. “Like…?”

He put his mouth by her ear and Maka shivered. “You could… finish your story.”

Maka jerked her head back. “You user! You only want me for my fanfiction!”

“It’s been forty chapters and they still haven’t kissed,” Soul insisted. “You need to come out of retirement and finish _Acquaintances_!”

She wiggled out from under him, ignoring his whines of protest. Their cereal breakfast had been cute but her stomach was hungry for something more substantial than sugary marshmallows. Soul’s refrigerator was the quintessential bachelor’s fridge -- all beer and frozen pizza and bread so moldy they could have harvested it for penicillin -- so Maka resigned herself to ordering out.

“Chinese?” Maka asked, only bothering to throw on one of Soul’s t-shirts from his drawer.

“Yeah. Get lots of egg rolls and noodles,” Soul yawned, burying his face in her pillow. _Her pillow_ , Maka thought with a blush. Was that moving too fast? Claiming a pillow as her own? She pushed that thought aside, not wanting to self sabotage before anything had really begun. One last kiss to his cheek -- which turned into a longer kiss, because Soul refused to let her go until she properly smooched him -- and Maka made her way to the kitchen to find the Chinese food menu.

Just as Maka hung up with the nice man from Good Luck Restaurant (who had been very surprised that a woman was calling from Soul’s number but wished the “married couple” many years of happiness), the front door unceremoniously swung open.

She stood there, phone in hand, staring at Wes Evans in horror. He looked back at her, a mixture of surprise and intrigue. They were both painfully aware that Maka was standing in Soul’s kitchen wearing only his favorite worn Rolling Stones shirt, hair tangled and mussed, with some very telling splotchy purple hickies on her thighs. She was frozen, body unwilling to listen to her brain’s commands. Her fight or flight instinct was failing her because she was neither running nor kicking Wes’ ass in hopes a brain injury would make him forget what he had seen.

“So,” Wes said lightly.

“So,” Maka said delicately.

“I like your underwear,” Wes said kindly. “Cat print suits you.”

“Thank you,” Maka said politely. “If you post about this on the internet, I’ll literally murder you with my bare hands.”

“Ah. Noted.” Wes slid his phone into the pocket of his jacket, holding his hands up like he was under arrest. “I come in peace. But if I may ask --”

“Don’t even think about it.” Soul finally emerged from the bedroom, a pair of sweatpants in hand. He mercifully threw them to Maka, who scrambled to pull them on before Wes could crack a joke about her Sanrio themed panties. Soul was thankfully mostly clothed but the scratch marks on his forearms were a dead giveaway as to what had _gone down_ , so to speak, the night before.

Wes smiled serenely at his brother. “Goodness, Soul, what happened to your arms? It looks like you got mauled by a cat.” He turned his knowing gaze to Maka. “ _Hello, Kitty._ ”

“What do you want?” Soul asked, not bothering to hide his contempt.

Clearly, Maka wasn’t the only one mourning the loss of their alone time. And it wasn’t that she didn’t _like_ Wes, because she did, it was just that she had hoped that she and Soul could be a little more official before Wes was privy to the details of their sex life.

“I came to give you the demo for Kim’s song. Jackie sent it to me in hopes it would put a fire under your ass to finish.” Wes tossed a small, purple, Swarovski crystal encrusted thumb drive to Soul, who fumbled with it before catching it.

“Why’d she send it to _you_?” Soul asked, looking down at it in his hands.

“Because she loathes you and doesn’t want to breathe the same air as you,” Wes said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Maka winced, though Soul only rolled his eyes. He swore up and down that Jackie’s dislike for him stemmed from her putting Maka on a pedestal as her First Official Gay Crush, but Maka thought that it had to do more with the fact that Kim and Soul had dated for an indeterminate amount of time. She tried to “subtly” poke around for answers but Soul had a penchant for hedging around anything that made him uncomfortable. He was tightlipped, giving only vague, one word answers or grunts whenever Maka brought up Kim outside of their business relationships.

She didn’t want to seem like a distrustful girlfriend ( _girlfriend_ , Maka thought with a little jolt of delight, she was someone’s girlfriend, she was _Soul’s_ girlfriend), and Soul didn’t _have_ to tell her anything about his past relationship if he didn’t want to, but Maka just really, really, _really_ needed to know if there were any sort of lingering attachments. Kim was beautiful and charming and talented; Maka didn’t think she stood a chance against her if she really needed to fight for Soul’s affections.

“Let’s give it a listen, shall we?” Wes put the thumb drive into Soul’s laptop without waiting for an answer and Soul only rolled his eyes, used to his brother’s behavior.

Nerves were starting to take over, as well as a buzzing excitement as the song started. These were _her_ words with Soul’s music. Maka was so proud of how far they had come in such a short amount of time. This was a new chapter of her life, the start of a creative journey. Maybe this would be the first of many songs they wrote together.

Maka waited with bated breath to hear Soul’s piano intro but all that came out of the speakers was a vaguely Reggae-Pop-Electro beat that sounded _nothing_ like their music.

Her jaw dropped as Kim’s voice belted out Maka’s lyrics to the new remix of _The Language of Letting Go._ Soul was rubbing the bridge of his noise, expression pinched, like he had the world’s biggest headache. Wes looked amused. Maka felt her throat closing; she must have been having some sort of allergic reaction to this abomination.

“What _is_ this?!” Maka screeched, slamming her hand down on Soul’s keyboard to stop the music. “This is supposed to be a ballad about a breakup, not some tacky club song!”

Wes raised his hands soothingly. “It’s not that bad -- ”

“IT _IS_ THAT BAD!” She was beyond reason. How _dare_ Kim mess with their song like that? That stupid, pink haired, glitter huffing diva… Maka looked at Soul pleadingly. “Soul, say something! This is gross! She completely mutilated our song!”

Soul rubbed the back of his neck, sighing deeply. “Yeah, it’s awful.”

Fine, Maka thought, she was filled with enough righteous fury for the both of them. “We have to say something. I’m going to call her right now and demand she go back to the original music.”

“Nooooo, no, no, no, you can’t.” Soul wedged himself between Maka and his phone. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. There’s no reasoning with Kim. Once she decides she wants to do something, she’s going to do it. You really don’t want to get on her bad side.”

Maka stared Soul down. Was he really brave enough to try and physically stop her from grabbing the phone and calling Kim? He might have some height on her, but considering the weakened state she left him in from their sextravaganza the night before, Maka could easily barrel right through him.

“I’m calling her,” Maka said stubbornly.

“I’m telling you this for your own good: drop it. It’s a battle you’re not gonna win,” Soul insisted.

“If I may interject -- ” Wes started.

“NO!” Soul snapped, just as Maka screamed, “YES!”

Wes patted Soul on the head. Soul swatted his hand away, slapping it savagely. “We were all invited to Kim’s house for a party tomorrow night. Maka, why don’t you try to approach her there to talk about it? Calmly, of course,” he said. “And Soul, you can go with her to do damage control. Isn’t that a great plan? Everyone wins.”

“Fuck no!” Soul snarled. “That’s a God awful plan! And I’m not going to her party.”

“Well, I am!” Maka folded her arms across her chest. “I’m going to convince her to go back to the original song. We worked way too hard on it to have it reduced to some -- some --”

“Drunk frat boy anthem?” Wes supplied helpfully.

“Shut the hell up, Wes!” Soul slapped his brother on the shoulder for good measure.

“I’m being helpful,” Wes sniffed.

“You’re the exact opposite of helpful! You’re a goddamn menace to society!” Soul turned to Maka pleadingly. “Don’t. Seriously. It’s going to blow up in your face. I’m telling you this from experience.”

Maka almost asked him about his “experience” with Kim but she knew that it was petty and they had an audience. Wes was a decent enough guy but he had an agenda and she had no desire to read about Nipnopz6969 rejoicing over their argument on Twitter. Instead, Maka forced down her angry words and reminded herself that she was an adult. She would deal with Kim in a mature manner, whether Soul liked it or not. This was purely professional, after all, and had nothing to do with the fact that Soul was possibly still in love with his ex-girlfriend.

She stalked into the bedroom to throw her clothing on. Soul followed after her, still trying to reason with her but Maka was deaf to his pleas. All she could think about was how he was trying to protect Kim’s fragile little feelings and apparently couldn’t care less about their song. She knew she had to get out of there before she said something she regretted.

Her feelings counted, too. This was half _her_ song. Irrational jealousy aside, this was Maka’s career on the line. Soul might be able to live off of royalties and his parents’ money, but Maka had bills to pay and dreams to fulfill. Her book had already flopped and her pride couldn’t stand to add another failure to her already growing list.

“Would you just listen to me for once?” Soul pleaded. “I’m only looking out for you, you idiot.”

“I can look out for myself,” Maka said with an air of finality, sliding on her boots and stomping out the door past Wes and the Chinese food delivery guy. She grabbed an egg roll from the bag out of principle and bit into it savagely. “I always have.”

* * *

“This is stupid,” Soul said for the thousandth time. “We should just go home. It’s crowded and everything smells like weed and ass.”

Maka was quickly inching out of “mildly bothered” and launching straight into “annoyed as all frick.” Soul was getting on her nerves with his incessant whining, her slightly too tight dress kept riding up her hips, and her too high heels were killing her feet. Why did she even feel compelled to dress up for a party she didn’t actually care about?

Oh right, because Maka felt completely inferior to a pop star with access to the best plastic surgeons in the world.

This wasn’t a contest, and yet, here she was, toddling on four inch heels as she power walked to find Kim. Maka hated herself so much sometimes.“We’ll go home _after_ we talk to Kim.”

“Maka, come on.”

She ignored Soul, shoving through the throngs of people to find her diva. If Maka were being honest with herself, she would have admitted that while yes, a large part of her was angry because Kim had butchered their song, an even larger part of her was lost in a storm of emotions over Soul’s hesitance to confront her. What the heck was this even about? Was he that worried about Kim firing them from the project? He _had_ been rather closed mouthed about his past-- was it possible that he was just using Maka to win back Kim’s affections?

Ridiculous, Maka told herself with a scoff as she dodged a security guard, Soul wasn’t that cunning.

She pushed that thought out of her mind as she zeroed in on Kim, who was lounging by the pool, surrounded by an entourage of ridiculously good looking men and women. Jackie was off to the side, quietly seething and sipping a brightly colored drink. She had a few moments before Soul caught up with her and Maka wasn’t about to let them go to waste. She shoved her way through the crowd, zeroing in on the pink haired girl wearing a barely there silver bikini.

Free, Kim’s bodyguard, waved at Maka cheerfully. In his lap, Eruka perked up instantly, probably hoping that Maka and Kim would throw down.

“Kim!” Maka panted. “We need to talk!”

Kim slid off her heart shaped sunglasses and stared up at Maka. Her makeup was done to perfection, despite the fact she was sitting by a pool. Maka felt acidic resentment rising up in her throat.  “Hi, Maka. So glad you could come. Talk about what?”

“The song. It’s --”

“Isn’t it great?” Kim asked. “It’s so much more upbeat!”

“It’s so much more _something_ ,” Maka muttered.

Kim narrowed her eyes at Maka, perfectly groomed false eyelashes sparkling in the sunlight. “Is there a problem?”

Out of her peripheral vision, Maka could see Jackie rising from her seat at the bar and Soul trying to get past a gaggle of daytime TV stars. One of them recognized Soul from _The Hunger Games_ and tried to get a selfie with him. “It’s just that Soul and I wrote the song with a certain feeling in mind. It just doesn’t make sense for the song to be ‘upbeat’ when it’s about a breakup --”

“Look,” Kim said sweetly, “‘Woe is me’ ballads aren’t being played in clubs and on the radio. I took a little bit of creative license but is that so wrong? I’m competing with some of the best pop stars of our time. It’s not just about the music. I want to dance.”

“But --”

“ _I said I want to dance_!” Kim snapped, and Maka took a step back. How Kim managed to look so intimidating while wearing what could only be classified as silver dental floss was truly admirable.

Soul finally reached them, completely out of breath, and grabbed Maka’s arm. “You’ve said your piece. Let’s go.”

Maka shrugged him off, anger flaring. “Maybe _you_ should say something! This is your music, Soul.”

“It’s not worth fighting over. You’re being too hotheaded,” Soul said.

Hackles raised like some rabid dog, Maka made a growling noise and balled her hands into tight fists at her sides. The urge to shove her partner into the pool was strong. Instead, Maka turned on her heel and walked away, mortified that everyone had seen her argument with Kim. She was even more mortified that Soul hadn’t backed her up.

So much for loyalty.

“Maka, wait up!” Soul jogged over. “Can you listen for a second?”

She spun around, practically going nose to nose with him.  “No! I’m tired of listening to your stupid excuses! Have a little integrity, Soul! You’re just letting Kim walk all over you. Don’t you have any pride as a musician? Or are you just too scared to get on her bad side? Worried she won’t throw herself all over you every time she sees you?”

“Whoa. Hold on --”

“What are you really so afraid of, Soul?” Maka spat. “All you know how to do is run away from everything! You half-ass all of your music, so scared to let people hear how great you really are. I don’t get it, you’re better than this garbage --”

“Now wait just a damn minute,” Soul said, voice rising to match hers in volume. A couple of partygoers in the driveway turned to watch the show but neither of them cared enough to stop. “ _You’re_ lecturing _me_ on running away? Oh, that’s hilarious,” he scoffed.

She had touched a nerve. _Good_. “What’s that supposed to mean?!”

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, posture stiff, shoulder hunched. “You let Noah get away with stealing your book. You never even called him out on it, not once. What kind of integrity is that?”

Maka felt the heat rise in her cheeks, her body trembling with rage. Her nails dug into her palms so hard that she could feel the skin break under the pressure. She hadn’t been expecting him to say that and the emotional whiplash left her breathless. “One thing has nothing to do with the other!”

“You sure about that?” His voice went cold, almost unrecognizable. “Or are you still just dying for his acceptance? Maybe it’s to fill that hole all of your daddy issues left.”

His words had hurt more than if he had physically struck her. Tears stung the back of her eyes but Maka refused to let even one drop. Soul immediately backpedaled, seemingly realizing that he had crossed a line. “Maka, I didn’t mean that- -”

“Ah. So this is how you really feel,” Maka said, so angry that a strange calm had passed over her. She scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand stubbornly. “That’s really nice. That’s just great. You know what? This was a mistake. All of it. We never should have started this in the first place.”

Soul sucked in a breath. “Don’t say that.”

“Good luck finishing the song yourself. I hope it does better than your last album.”

She hailed a cab quickly, needing to get out of there as fast as possible. Maka was strong but not strong enough to handle Soul’s crumbling expression and the flood of apologies without bursting into tears. She slammed the car door shut right in his face, mid-apology, urging the cab driver to go quickly.

Maka finally let herself cry, glad that her tears blurred Soul’s figure in the distance.


	7. Don't Write Me Off

The song _The Language of Letting Go_ was written and performed by Amanda (sojustifiable on tumblr) [here](http://sojustifiable.tumblr.com/post/134445344774/his-forehead-crashed-against-the-keys-with-a), so please be sure to listen to it when you read this chapter! _Don’t Write Me Off_ belongs to the movie _Music & Lyrics_ and is performed by Amanda [here](http://sojustifiable.tumblr.com/post/134445387319/what-other-surprises-did-soul-have-in-store-for)!.

* * *

He had tried everything to get in contact with Maka short of sending smoke signals out of his apartment window.

Voicemails, texts, emails-- each one was more pathetically apologetic than the next, starting from “Call me please” and careening down into “I am so, so, so, so sorry, I’m a huge dick and the worst person in the world.” Each had gone unanswered, and eventually, Soul had to throw in the towel; he didn’t want to bother her and make her hate him more than she already did.

Her disgust for him was well deserved. He had said something so appalling, said it completely out of spite, and Soul knew it would hurt her. It was a defense mechanism and a shitty one at that. Maka had been 100% right about his unwillingness to put his whole heart into his music because he was terrified of failure. The words had tumbled out of his mouth unbidden before he could think about the repercussions to his callousness and now he was paying the price. Maka wanted nothing to do with him and their song. Maka had called their relationship a mistake. Maka had completely washed her hands of him and he might never see her again.

Ironic, Soul thought as he burrowed deeper into his blanket cocoon on the couch. He had never understood all the goopy, cliché songs about heartbreak and loss… until now.

There was a hole in his heart that could only be filled with snack foods and so instead of frantically trying to finish the lyrics of Kim’s song without Maka’s help, he holed himself up in his apartment and ate with a vengeance. No food was safe from him. From frosting to ice cream to bagels to every candy on this God given earth, Soul devoured them all as he watched the Lifetime channel and wondered how his life had spiraled out of control so fast.

“Wow,” Wes marveled as he opened the front door, uninvited as per usual, looking around at the carnage. “You’ve really fallen off the deep end, haven’t you?” He picked up a Twinkie wrapper. “Good thing you have all these carbs to break your fall.”

“Bite me.”

Wes sat down next to him on the couch, clearing away the chip bags and cookie jar. “Talk to me.”

Soul wrapped his blanket around himself more tightly, shielding himself from his brother’s concerned look “Go away, Wes.”

“Mom’s worried about you. She said you’re not picking up your phone. I’m worried about you, too.”

He snorted and tore into a chocolate donut. Soul wasn’t even hungry anymore -- he was pretty sure he might throw up at any given moment, actually -- but the familiar action of chewing and swallowing was comforting. “Oh, go fuck yourself, Wes. Like you’re not getting off on all the publicity this break up’s going to bring. Did you post it to Twitter yet or are you going to sell the story to the highest bidder?”

Wes look genuinely offended, hurt filling his perfect blue eyes. “I would never do that, Soul. You’re my brother and I care about you. You know I only want you to be happy.”

Oh, great. Now Soul felt like an even bigger asshole. All he knew how to do was upset people, apparently. He deserved all of this unhappiness and more. “Whatever. I just want to be alone.”

“Sitting here and sulking isn’t going to change anything.” Wes put his arm around Soul, bringing him over to his side for a half-hug. Soul would never admit this to anyone, especially to his Wes, but the gesture was comforting. Even though he and Wes were as different as day and night, Soul still remembered how much he had worshipped his older brother in his youth, how his brother always doted on him, believed in him, kissed scraped knees, and protected him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to depend on him, just this once. “Just give Maka a little time. She’ll come around.”

Soul sighed. “Yeah, but what if she doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll set you up with Mrs. Lowenstein’s daughter. She’s a cute redhead.”

“ _Wes._ ”

“I’m kidding,” Wes said soothingly, pressing a fraternal kiss to Soul’s forehead. Soul grumbled but didn’t move away. “Maka will forgive you. You just need to show her that you’re genuinely sorry.”

God, was he sorry. He didn’t know what he could do short of throwing himself at her mercy. Soul wasn’t above begging for forgiveness but even that wasn’t helping. “I really care about her, Wes.”

 _Care about her_ was the understatement of the century. Soul was pretty sure Maka was someone he could easily fall in love with, and it both frightened and thrilled him. But now he would never get a chance to know for sure and it only made him want to devour an entire pizza and cry about it.

“I know. We’ll figure something out, don’t worry.” Wes smiled. “You’re a good person, Soul, and very deserving of her love. You two are good together and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“Wes?”

“Yes?”

“... I think I’m going to be sick.”

“What I said wasn’t _that_ corny, was it?”

“N-no. Like legit sick.”

Wes might have been a dramatic, flamboyant, pain in the ass, but he still sat in Soul’s bathroom with him and rubbed his back as he threw up the contents of his stomach, and in that moment, Soul had never loved or appreciated his brother more.

* * *

“This can’t be healthy.”

Maka slammed her fingers down on her keyboard, typing furiously. Her friends from college had come to visit after getting her frantic, hysterical midnight text about hating men and running away to join a convent and swearing off love indefinitely. Crona sat on her right side, gently patting her shoulder every so often while Kid walked around the apartment, cleaning up stacks of paper and refolding her towels.

“What do you know?” Maka asked Kid. “You work with dead people all day. You don’t have enough human contact to know what’s healthy and what’s not.”

“How rude,” Kid sniffed. “I am a funeral director, Maka. I speak with grieving families all the time.”

“When was the last time you were even in a relationship with someone other than _Mr. Clean_?” Maka snapped.

Kid frowned as he picked up a wrinkled dish towel covered with a cheerful cherry pattern. “Probably around the same time you bought this hideous monstrosity from the bargain bin at the flea market.”

“Elitist -- !”

“Don’t fight,” Crona implored. “We’re here to cheer Maka up.”

Kid viciously threw the dish towel into the trash and folded his arms over his chest. Maka had to admit he cut a beautiful, intimidating figure in his black suit, but she wasn’t about to back down. “I would love to do so if only she could tear herself away from spite-writing her outdated, ten-year-old fanfiction in a passive aggressive attempt to hurt Soul Evans.”

Maka crashed her hand down on the enter key. “This is not passive aggressive, Kid. This is entirely aggressive.” She shoved the laptop towards Crona. “Here. Write something so soul crushing, so heart breaking, that he drowns in an ocean of feelings and tears.”

“Don’t you dare,” Kid warned.

Crona looked back and forth between their two friends. “I -- I don’t know if I should…”

“You absolutely should,” Maka insisted. “I need your writing skills, Crona. No one writes dark things like you.”

Crona blushed at the compliment and started slowly typing, just as Kid and Maka knew they would, because Crona loved Maka dearly and would probably walk over hot coals without hesitation if Maka asked them to. Maka tried not to take advantage, because Crona was a delicate and sensitive soul who needed to be protected, but now she needed them more than ever.

Revenge was best served cold in the form of a sad end to a story, after all.

Kid shook his head at Maka. He was looking at her like a disappointed parent and Maka had to admit, she felt a bit like a chastised child.  “You’re using your powers for evil, Maka, and I don’t approve.”

It was just so much easier to let herself be angry than to be sad. Maka knew that if she started crying again, she would never stop. She only shrugged at his words, trying not to let her friend see how much they affected her.  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“You could just talk to him. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said.”

Maka scowled at him, accusal dripping off of her in waves. “Of course. I knew you would stick up for _your_ kind.”

Kid paused in his cleaning of Maka’s kitchen and judgmental but well meaning advice. “Catholics?”

“No!” Maka screamed and Crona jumped in surprise. Maka quickly lowered her voice, not wanting to startle her skittish friend further. “ _Men._ ”

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing away at the tension. “You know how unreasonable you sound, don’t you? Despite what you may think, it’s not ingrained in male DNA to ruin the lives of women.”

“Tell that to my own father who _dedicated a smutty romance novel to me._ ”

Kid wasn’t taking her snarky bait. “Maka. Don’t you think -- and bear with me here for a moment -- that it’s possible that part of the reason you’re so upset with Soul is because there may be a little grain of truth in what he said to you?” he asked gently.

Maka gasped. Was Kid trying to imply that Maka had used Noah as some sort of Dad-figure stand-in during a time in her life when she desperately needed parental approval and involvement? That even though what Soul said was vile, the sentiment was 100% true? That even though she was perfectly entitled to her anger at him for the way he spoke to her, she might have been taking this too far and needed to forgive him? “That is absolutely -- there is _no_ way -- how could you even --?”

Kid always did find a way to logic through her emotional outbursts. This was just like that time he had to talk her down from staging a protest in the quad after she found that many of her fellow students were underlining in library books. Her heart was in the right place, but Kid insisted there were better ways to get her message across than screaming, “HIGHLIGHTING IS MURDER!” at already stressed out coeds who literally couldn’t care less about the abuse of textbooks.

Maka slumped over, shoulders hunching. Crona paused in their typing to pat Maka’s shoulder again. “I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t.”

“I _know_ ,” Maka whined, “but why do you have to be so right? I don’t need this in my life! Friends are supposed to appease you and tell you you’re right even when you’re wrong.”

Kid laughed. “We both know that’s not how it works.”

“Urgh.” Maka buried her face in Crona’s bony shoulder. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I still think Soul has some lingering attachments to Britney Spears 2.0. I ended it before I got in too deep.”

“You’re a grown woman forcing your friend to ghostwrite a story on the internet in hopes that the person you’re probably in love with will notice you,” Kid pointed out. “I think you’re way past ‘too deep’.”

“When you say it like that, it just sounds _pathetic_.”

“Because it _is_. Come on, Crona. It’s time for the grownups to go back to work.” Kid snapped the laptop shut and shot Maka the mother of all disapproving looks. “I hope by the next time we speak, you’ll have worked this all out.”

She grumbled under her breath, mourning the loss of her ghostwriter, her pride, and her fallen dish towel.

With friends like these, who needed enemies?

* * *

When Soul was able to put down his family-sized bag of Oreos, turn off his breakup playlist (which mostly consisted of Air Supply’s _All Out of Love_ on constant loop), and haul himself out of bed, he decided that the only way to earn Maka’s forgiveness was to put on his big boy pants and do what should have been done days ago.

Appealing to Kim’s humanity wouldn’t be an easy task. She wasn’t a monster by any means, but she was territorial and selfish and stubborn. When things didn’t go her way, heads rolled. Soul had learned this firsthand when he halfheartedly attempted a relationship with her. Most of her ire was well deserved; Kim was someone who survived on a diet of attention and adoration from her significant other. Soul had just sort of awkwardly co-existed alongside her for as long as he could stand because that was what he was supposed to do and, yeah, even he got lonely sometimes. It wasn’t a fairytale romance by any means but at least it got Wes and Black*Star off of his back and thwarted any attempts to buy him _nightly companions._

Both Kim and Soul were at fault for going into the relationship with ulterior motives but neither of them were particularly bad people -- they just happened to be very, very bad for each other. Clearly, they needed significant others like Jackie and Maka to dilute all of their bitterness, as opposed to feeding off of each other’s misery and amplifying it.

Dating Kim and consequently breaking up with her had been the easy part.

Trying to get her to change the song back to the way it was originally written? Now that was going to be a _bitch_.

Soul tried to summon up some of that Evans charm that Wes swore he had inside him. He would not, however, become a student of the Wes Evans School of Dealing With Problems because he had zero desire to bone his way to victory. Instead, he had brought Kim’s favorite donut and coffee combination and was prepared to shamelessly beg, if need be.

Maka was worth the loss of dignity.

He found the singer in question in the studio, hunched over on a giant velvet couch, practically being swallowed up by a nightmare-ish canary-yellow chiffon dress with puffed sleeves. “Kim --”

Her painted lips were pouting at full force, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. _Here we fucking go,_ Soul thought, feeling an ulcer coming on. He really should have been used to this by now. “Soul! Don’t act like I’m some horrible person,” she sniffled. “Jackie is so angry with me. She said it was my fault that you and Maka broke up!”

“I mean. It’s _kinda_ your fault,” Soul said before he could stop himself.

Kim burst into tears. Real, ugly, mascara streaking tears accompanied by heaving sobs. Soul was supremely uncomfortable with the show of emotion and looked away. “I didn’t mean to do that, okay?! It’s just -- augh -- Maka is so cute and nice and such a good person, what if Jackie fell back in love with her? You never forget your first love!”

Although he and Jackie had never agreed on anything, Soul could certainly see why she might have a lingering attachment to Maka. The attraction to her wasn’t instantaneous; there was no crack of thunder or arrow through his heart. It was more of a slow burn, like stepping into a lukewarm bath after coming in from a storm. Yeah, she was cute and her abs could make a grown man weep tears of joy, and he didn’t want to sound like a corny Hallmark card, but her inner beauty was what really hooked him.

He just really loved a woman who would resort to murder and sabotage to win a competition, apparently.

“Don’t cry,” Soul sighed, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder. “Jackie is crazy about you. Look at how much she puts up with. If she didn’t want to be with you, there’s no way she’d stick around for this train wreck.”

“That feels like a thinly veiled insult,” Kim grumbled.

“It was meant to.”

“This is exactly why I broke up with you. You have no delicacy. Well, that, and your mother is a nightmare.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, looking like a little raccoon with black streaks under her eyes. It was almost endearing, except Soul knew this raccoon was sneaky and potentially rabid. “I’m sorry, Soul. The original song was pretty good. That’s the one I’m going to sing at the concert.”

He grinned and raised his sleeve to swipe at the melted makeup on her face. “I bet if you showed a tenth of that sincerity to Jackie, she would forgive you.”

Kim sighed. “Relationships are hard.”

“Don’t I know it. Haven’t you read my autobiography: ‘ _You’re Gonna Die Alone Because You Don’t Know How to People: The Soul Evans Story_ ’?”

“Oh shut up, you know that’s not going to happen.” Kim rolled her eyes. “You’ve got that whole ‘broody musician’ thing going on. You’re a hot commodity. Don’t act like groupies aren’t lining up around the block to throw their training bras at you.”

He knew that in her own way, Kim was trying to cheer him up. She could be earnest, sweet… when she thought no one was looking.  “Thanks, but there’s only one A-cup in particular I’m interested in.”

“Is Maka really angry?” she asked, having the decency to look the tiniest bit remorseful.

“She wrote a ten thousand word chapter to a decade-old story that I mentioned I liked, only to gruesomely kill off the main characters the second before they kissed for the first time,” Soul said dryly. “She literally had Rider’s face explode and the blood splattered all over Mika, who then got shot and her mangled corpse fell into the ocean. I think it’s safe to say she’s pretty pissed.”

“Ouch.” Kim winced.

“Yeah.”

“You probably did something to deserve it, though.”

“Yeah.”

“... I know a good jeweler,” Kim offered. “Men are disappointing but diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Soul sighed. “I don’t think Maka’s into that.”

He paused.

“... but maybe text me that number, anyway. Just in case.”

* * *

Maka had been kidnapped and was being held hostage by an ex-model and a stunt double.

Liz was much stronger than she looked, Maka thought, and when she whined this at the older woman, Liz only replied that she’d spent her younger days in a gang and learned a thing or two from street life. “Shit, if you want to see strong, you should meet my younger sister,” she said as she threw Maka into the backseat of the car service unapologetically, only taking a moment to look down at her perfectly wrapped French silk nails to make sure none of them had broken. “She’s a performance artist in SoHo but Patti doesn’t fuck around.”

Tsubaki only smiled as her wife strong armed Maka into the Lincoln. “We’re doing this for your own good, Maka. You worked so hard to finish your song for Kim, you deserve to see the fruits of your labor.”

Despite her annoyance, Maka had a flash of conscience and sent Kim the rest of the lyrics to _The Language of Letting Go_ a couple of nights earlier. Soul had texted her to say thank you and Maka curtly replied _you’re welcome_ even though there was so much more she had wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that she forgave him and she hoped he could forgive her for ignoring him. She wanted to tell him that she only finished the lyrics for him because they had started this together and that’s how she wanted to end it.

Most importantly, Maka wanted to tell him that she cared for him deeply, despite her best efforts not to, and maybe they could work this whole thing out. If he wanted.

But maybe he didn’t want to and that was the part that was absolutely terrifying. Putting herself out there, being vulnerable -- she was still gunshy after all that had happened to her, as hard as she had tried to be brave.

Which was exactly why she needed the push -- both emotionally and physically -- from Tsubaki and Liz to get to Kim’s concert and potentially go face to the face with the object of her affections. She was sandwiched between them in the backseat of the car, probably because Liz didn’t trust that Maka wouldn’t try to open the door and roll into traffic, and to be honest, it was a little comforting to be surrounded by good people while she quietly panicked at the thought of having to listen to _their_ song being butchered.

Maybe it was just business to music industry people like Kim and Soul, but the song was something that they created together, and Maka didn’t know if she was ready to watch a trillion New Yorkers enjoy something that had been so bastardized.

“I really don’t want to go in,” Maka said for the six hundredth time. “Can I please just wait in the car?”

“Nope,” Tsubaki and Liz said in unison.

Dread gathered in the pit of her stomach, nerves fluttering and buzzing as rowdy teenagers chatted and screamed for Kim to come on stage. The three women were close to the front, so much so that Kim’s dancers were probably going to sweat on them, and there was no exit in sight. Tsubaki and Liz smartly sat on either side of her, so escape was doubly futile. Maka could only sink down in her seat, force back her tears, and try to make it through this concert without having some sort of emotional breakdown.

The lights dimmed.

_It was time._

Kim was lowered onto the stage, encased in a in a diamond studded birdcage, and Maka had to admit she looked resplendent in a modest white dress. The girl _did_ know how to make an entrance. As soon as she was safely on the ground, she burst out of the cage, ripped off the dress to reveal a very tiny black bodysuit underneath, and started dancing to her number one hit, _Black Magic_. As much as Maka wanted to dislike her, Kim was disgustingly talented and Maka begrudgingly respected that.

“Now to slow things down,” Kim panted as soon as the song ended, “I’d like to sing a song that was written by two very talented people. People you all may know from a certain reality show -- ”

She couldn’t do this, Maka thought as the crowd roared. She needed to get the hell out of there. Her fight or flight instinct was telling her that she either needed to jump on stage and deck Kim in her perfect face or climb over Liz and barrel through tweens to get to an exit before she cried or threw up or both.

“And one of those people has been kind enough to agree to my demands and help me entertain you beautiful, wonderful people!”

Liz dug her nails into Maka’s arm nearly to the point of drawing blood as Soul walked on to the stage, making his way over to a grand piano. Tsubaki gasped out loud and Maka was completely glued to her seat, unable to breathe or think as she watched this scene unfold before her. All she could notice was that the terrible dance music that she had been dreading wasn’t keying up. The background dancers had left the stage. All of the fire and special effects had been turned off. It was only Soul at the piano and Kim standing next to it, demurely holding her microphone.

The crowd was going wild. Despite his insistence that people neither liked nor remembered him, the concert goers were absolutely losing their shit over seeing Soul Evans return to the stage. NipNopz6969 was probably tweeting up a storm about it, Maka thought, blinking back her confusion.

The familiar tune of their song -- the original piano intro -- knocked Maka out of her reverie.

They were doing the original song.

_They were doing their song._

“ _We met like a blank page meeting a paint brush_

_I said let’s take it slow, never one to rush_

_Two weeks saw us on the beach in Mexico with no one around us_

_The stars turned circles around the skies_

_Then we flew back to New York for goodbyes_

_You said I had to learn the language of letting go, letting go_

_I need to know how to let go..._ ”

Maka was completely frozen, overcome with so many conflicting emotions. She was proud that her lyrics were being heard. She was enchanted with Kim’s sweet voice and Soul’s beautiful piano. She was confused and angry that Soul pulled a fast one and was performing _their_ song on a stage after they had already broken up. This was going to get her hopes up and make her expect things and Maka didn’t know if she could take another disappointment.

“ _We spent just two months in reverie_

_Now you’ll only be part of my memory_

_You said you wanted the stars from my eyes and I would give them to you_

_I thought those stars would see us through_

_But I don’t really think you wanted them to_

_Now I have to learn the language of letting go, letting go_

_I’ll never know how to let go…_ ”

She had to get out of there and figure out what to do next, because jumping on stage to kick and then kiss Soul Evans for simultaneously being the most annoying and most lovable person she had ever known was not an option.

_“We could have been everything_

_Everything that we wanted to be_

_But you caught me in a whirlwind storm_

_And shook me out back to sea_

_Two weeks saw me in Philly at the gallery_

_You showed me all your paintings of the galaxy_

_You asked me if I wanted to see you again_

_But I just shook my head_

_I’d put stars in your eyes if you let me_

_But now you’re just gonna regret me.”_

Ignoring Tsubaki and Liz’s protests, Maka climbed over seats and screaming high schoolers to get to the end of the row. She ran down the aisles and found the nearest exit, legs trembling so hard she was surprised she managed to get this far without falling on her face.

As she pushed open the heavy doors, only one thing managed to break through her muddled thoughts with stark clarity:

She was irrevocably, passionately, and stupidly in love with Soul Evans.

“‘ _Cuz now I know the language of letting go, letting go_

 _You should know how to let go_ …”

* * *

As soon as the song was done, Soul tore off the stage only to be intercepted by Wes, who was patiently waiting backstage.

“I don’t have time for whatever it is you’re scheming,” Soul breathed. He was sweating and jittery from performing and all of the anxiety made him want to pass out. But he had seen Maka leave and all he knew was that he needed to go after her, come what may. “I have to -- I don’t even know what the fuck I have to do, but I can’t stay here. I have to tell her how I feel because I can’t lose her.”

Wes handed him a towel and a bottle of water. He smiled that all-knowing, gentle Wes Evans smile. “I know, little brother. Leave it to me. I have people who can help.”

* * *

She was practically bursting out of her skin as she paced around her apartment, nearly wearing holes in the cheap linoleum floors.

Soul was probably still at the concert and wouldn’t answer his phone, Maka told herself, trying to calm her heart. Even if he did, what would she say? _I’m in love with you_?

“Yes,” Maka said out loud, psyching herself up like she used to do before her lacrosse games in high school, “that’s exactly what I’m going to say. If he doesn’t feel the same way, that’s -- that’s okay. But you can’t back down now, Albarn. Not when you’ve come this far. Get your head in the game.”

Her cellphone vibrated in her pocket and Maka was so startled that she let out an embarrassingly loud yelp. There was a text from Soul and for a second, Maka debated simply throwing her phone out the window because she wasn’t sure if she could handle whatever it was he was going to tell her. Maka bravely pressed on and clicked it open.

_fire escape._

“‘Fire escape’?” Maka read out loud. “What is he talking about?”

When she didn’t reply right away, another text came:

_your fire escape, nerd_

“Okay?” she asked her empty apartment and shuffled over towards her living room window, climbing out onto the fire escape. “But what --”

Across the street on the concrete steps of a public elementary school stood five familiar figures. Wes Evans held a bass guitar. Kilik Rung was on the drums. Black*Star and Harvar D. Eclair on guitar.

_Soul Evans on keyboard._

“Oh my God,” Maka whispered.

“Oh my GOD!” A girl in her twenties shrieked to her boyfriend, nearly shaking the poor guy into a coma. “Is that _2Kool4Skool_?!”

What other surprises did Soul have in store for her? Maka wondered, hand over her mouth as she heard an unfamiliar song gear up as people started to crowd around, cellphones out to take pictures and videos and report on social media. How had he managed to get this together so quickly? And did he actually have a mic near his mouth, despite the fact that he hated to sing?

Was he seriously going to -- ?

“ _It’s never been easy for me_

_To find words to go along with a melody_

_But this time there’s actually something on my mind_

_So please forgive these few brief awkward lines_

_Since I met you, my whole life has changed_

_It’s not just my furniture you’ve rearranged_

_I was living in the past, but somehow you’ve brought me back_

_And I haven’t felt like this since before Frankie said, ‘Relax!’_

_And while I know, based on my track record,_

_I might not seem like the safest bet_

_All I’m asking you is don’t write me off just yet._ ”

She immediately started shimmying down her fire escape to the streets, pushing her way past the people who had gathered to watch the 2Kool4Skool reunion concert. Maka instinctively knew that Soul had written these lyrics -- they were abysmal-- and she couldn’t stop smiling as he serenaded her in front of half of New York City.

These were his real feelings and he was willing to put himself out there to make sure that she knew.

He wasn’t running this time and neither was she.

_“For years I’ve been telling myself the same old story_

_That I’m happy to live off my so-called former glories_

_But you’ve given me a reason to take another chance_

_Now I need you, despite the fact that you’ve killed all my plants.”_

“Let it go…” Maka whispered, biting her lip to keep the tears from spilling over.

_“And though I know, I’ve already blown more chances_

_Than anyone should ever get_

_All I’m asking you is don’t write me off just yet..._ ”

He wasn’t the greatest singer, that much was for certain, and the band was obviously out of practice, but it was still the best song that Maka had ever heard.

“I wrote that,” Soul said as the music died down and Maka slowly approached him. Despite the deafening screams of the people behind her calling for an encore, Maka could only see and hear him. “What’d you think?”

“Those lyrics are awful,” Maka said, smiling.

“I know.” He took her hand. “That’s why I need you.”

  
“You only need me for my lyrics?” she teased.

“And to kill the spiders in my apartment. But maybe also to rewrite that last chapter of your fanfic.”

She laughed and squeezed his hand. “How did you even get all of this together -- ?” In her peripheral view, she could see Wes beaming at them happily in between typing furiously on his phone. He was probably tweeting about 2Kool4Skool’s secret performance, Maka thought wryly. Some things never changed. “Ah. Wes?”

“Wes,” Soul affirmed.

Soul immediately blushed and hesitated, but Maka was tired of waiting and worrying and not being with him. She pulled him by his shirt and kissed him, ignoring the thunderous applause and slaps on the back and the telltale clicks of cellphone cameras going off.

Maka could only focus on Soul’s breathing, the soft sounds of his lips on hers, and the steady, strong thrum of his heart.

And it was the most beautiful music she had ever heard.

* * *

**Epilogue: You Got It (The Right Stuff)**

“Oh man, listen to this one: Dear God, give us back Kurt Cobain and we’ll give you @SoulEvans.”

Maka didn’t even look up from her book. “Soul, get off of Twitter, you’re distracting me. I’m trying to study here.”

Soul snatched the book from her hands and flung it onto the bed. Maka gasped indignantly and tried to reach for it but he blocked her path, putting his arms around her waist. “You really don’t have to study. No one actually studies for conversion. You go to a spa, promise you’ll be a good Jew, and ask the rabbi a couple of times to let you into the club.”

“That’s definitely not how it works,” she muttered but let herself be cradled to his chest. “How did you even get through your Bar Mitzvah when you can barely read Hebrew and never crack open a book?”

“ _Rabbi Shmuel Goldstein’s Happenin’ Haftorah on CD_ ,” Soul quipped and Maka pinched his side. “I’m an auditory learner, Maka, don’t judge me.” Maka pinched him again and he laughed, squirming away slightly. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Go through all this trouble. I’m telling you, we can always elope.”

Maka pressed her cheek to his shoulder happily. “You’re worth it. Besides, your mother would have a coronary if we eloped. Do you really want her to die and have her spirit haunt you for the rest of your life?”

“God, that woman won’t give me peace, even in death.”

That earned him a third pinch. “Be nice, Soul.”

“Nah,” he said and leaned down to kiss her, “I’ve got that bad boy rep to protect.”

Maka snorted but it was quickly muffled by his mouth on hers. “Speaking of your ‘bad boy rep,’ rumor on the internet is that 2Kool4Skool may be reuniting for a new album and tour. How do you plead?”

“I’m thinking about it,” he admitted, “but I’m not sold on the idea. I kind of want to concentrate on writing music with you.”

“You can do both,” Maka insisted. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“You just want to see me in a full body denim jumpsuit like in that poster you used to have of me on your bedroom wall.”

“Shut your face, Soul Evans!”

“That you used to kiss every night -- ”

“I am not marrying you, I am breaking up with you _immediately --_!!”

“But now you can kiss me for real,” he leered with a grin. “Every night if you want. If you’re feeling adventurous, maybe even sometimes during the day.”

“I’ll think about it,” Maka said primly.

He picked her up and dragged her to lie down on the bed, rolling all over her carefully drafted study notes. Maka protested half heartedly for a hot second but eventually flopped on top of him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Soul.”

Soul shrugged. “I’m cool with being the trophy husband.”

“I love you,” Maka said. He opened his mouth to respond in kind, but was interrupted by, “Even though you sabotaged me and poisoned my chicken.”

Was he really going to subject himself to the next fifty or so years of torture with a woman who was going to bring up her tainted chicken every chance she got?

… yeah. He totally was.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Soul mimicked and pulled her closer, no intention of ever letting go.


End file.
